MARY the Cook-maid's LETTER to Dr. SHERIDAN.

WE

Written in the Year 1723.

LL; if ever I faw fuch another man fince my mother bound my head.

You a Gentleman! marry come up, I wonder where you were bred?

I am fure fuch words does not become a man of your cloth,

I would not give fuch language to a dog, faith and troth.

Yes; you call'd my Mafter a knave: fie, Mr. Sheridan, 'tis a fhame

For a Parfon, who fhou'd know better things, to come out with fuch a name.

Knave in your teeth! Mr. Sheridan, 'tis both a fhame and a fin,

And the Dean, my Master, is an honefter man than you and all your kin :

He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body.

My Master is a perfonable man, and not a fpindlefhank'd hoddy-doddy.

And now whereby I find you would fain make an excuse,

Because my Mafter one day in anger call'd you goofe.

VOL. II.

Which,

Which, and I am fure, I have been his fervant four years fince October,

And he never call'd me worfe than sweet-beart, drunk or fober::

Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge,

Tho' you and your come-rogues keep him out fo late in your wicked college.

You fay you will eat grafs on his grave; a Christian eat grafs !

Whereby you now confefs yourself to be a goofe

or an afs:

But that's as much as to fay, that my Master fhould die before ye;

sas

Well, well, that's as God pleafes, and I don't believe that's a true story;

And fo fay I told you fo, and you may go

my Mafter; what care I?

tell

And I don't care who knows it, 'tis all one to Mary.

Every body knows, that I love to tell truth, and fhame the devil;

I am but a poor fervant, but I think gentle folks fhould be civil.

Befides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here,

I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all days in

the year.

And

And Saunders the man fays, you are always jefting and mocking,

Mary, faid he, (one day, as I was mending my Mafter's flocking),

My Master is fo fond of that Minister, that keeps the school;

I thought my Master a wife man, but that manmakes him a fool.

Saunders, faid I, I would rather than a quart of ale,

He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a difh-clout to his tail.

And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter,

For I write but a fad fcrawl, but my fifter Mar gret the writes better.

Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my Mafter comes from pray'rs,

And fee now,

it ftrikes ten, and I hear him co

ming up stairs:

Whereof I cou'd fay more to your verses, if I cou'd write written hand ;;

And fo I remain,, in a civil way, your servant to

command,

MARY

Q 2

A

A quibbling ELEGY on the worshipful Judge BOAT.

T

Written in the Year 1723.

10 mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note, Since cruel fate hath funk our Justice Boat; Why should he fink, where nothing feem'd to prefs?

His lading little, and his ballaft lefs.

Toft in the waves of this tempeftuous world,
At length his anchor fixt, and canvas furl'd,,
To Lazy bill retiring from his court,

*

At his Rings-End he founders in the port.
With water fill'd, he could no longer float,
The common death of many a stronger boat.

A poft fo fill'd on nature's laws entrenches, Benches on boats are plac't, not boats on benches. And yet our Boat (how fhall I reconcile it) ? Was both a boat, and in one fense a pilot. With ev'ry wind he fail'd, and well cou'd tack: Had many pendents, but abhor'd a ‡ jack. He's gone, although his friends began to hope, That he might yet be lifted by a rope.

*Two villages near the fea, where boatmen and

feamen live.

It was faid that he died of a dropfy.
A cant word for a Jacobite.

BEHOLD

BEHOLD the awful bench, on which he fat, He was as hard, and pond'rous wood as that: Yet, when his fand was out, we find at last, That death hath overfet him with a blast. Our Boat is now fail'd to the Stygian ferry, There to fupply old Charon's leaky wherry : Charon in him will ferry fouls to hell;

A trade our Boat had practis'd here fo well. And Cerberus hath ready in his paws,

Both pitch and brimstone to fill up his flaws; Yet, fpite of death and fate, I here maintain, We may place Boat in his old poft again.

The way is thus, and well deferves your thanks: Take the three ftrongest of his broken planks, Fix them on high, confpicuous to be feen, Form'd like the triple tree near + Stephen's-green, And, when we view it thus, with thief at end on't,

We'll cry; look, here's our Boat, and there's the pendent.

The EPITAPH.

HERE lies Fudge Boat within a coffin,
Pray, gentle folks, forbear your scoffing.
A Boat a Judge! yes, where's the blunder?
A wooden Fudge is no fuch wonder.

* In hanging people as a Judge.
Where the Dublin gallows ftands.

0 3

And,