Three days for answer I have waited,
I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated
And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated
poetaster?
Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose
Of thy dimension's fit for prose;
But every one that knows Dan, knows
thy master.
Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines,
And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1]
Thy fame, thy genius, now declines,
proud boaster.
I hear with some concern your roar
And flying think to quit the score,
By clapping billets on your door
and posts, sir.
Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant,
I'm grieved to hear your banishment,
But pleased to find you do relent
and cry on.
I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff,
But now I'll secret keep your stuff;
For know, prostration is enough
to th' lion.
[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.--_F._]
SHERIDAN'S SUBMISSION
BY THE DEAN
Miserae cognosce prooemia rixae,
Si rixa est ubi tu pulsas, ego vapulo tantum.[1]
Poor Sherry, inglorious,
To Dan the victorious,
Presents, as 'tis fitting,
Petition and greeting.
To you, victorious and brave,
Your now subdued and suppliant slave
Most humbly sues for pardon;
Who when I fought still cut me down,
And when I vanquish'd, fled the town
Pursued and laid me hard on.
Now lowly crouch'd, I cry _peccavi_,
And prostrate, supplicate _pour ma vie_;
Your mercy I rely on;
For you my conqueror and my king,
In pardoning, as in punishing,
Will show yourself a lion.
Alas! sir, I had no design,
But was unwarily drawn in;
For spite I ne'er had any;
'Twas the damn'd squire with the hard name;
The de'il too that owed me a shame,
The devil and Delany;
They tempted me t' attack your highness,
And then, with wonted wile and slyness,
They left me in the lurch:
Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween,
I've nothing left to vent my spleen
But ferula and birch:
And they, alas! yield small relief,
Seem rather to renew my grief,
My wounds bleed all anew:
For every stroke goes to my heart
And at each lash I feel the smart
Of lash laid on by you.
[Footnote 1: Juvenalis, Sat. iii, 288.--_W. E. B._]