To the Dean of St. Patrick's.
Obscure in garret vile I lay,
And slumbered out the tedious day;
Or par'd my nails, or watch'd the cries
Of savoury sausages or pies;
Or strove, with dexterous art, to hide
Chinks in my stockings gaping wide;
Or read old authors o'er and o'er,
In number hardly half a score;
Those, dusty, tattered, full of holes;
The rest were gone to purchase coals.
In prose[1] I told how Epictetus,
Upon a pinch, the best of meat is;
On which I was compelled to dine,
While gay Petronius paid for wine.
How Horace cater'd, Plutarch, pot —
Companion boon, discharg'd my shot.
How Tully too the kennel thumps,
Converted to a pair of pumps.
I told how Gulliver, with sense
Enrich'd me first, and then with pence,
And ah! I might with tears relate
Poor metamorphos'd Virgil's fate;
Who, having erst adorn'd my leg,
Now hangs and rots upon a peg.
Unable to dismiss a crowd
Of duns importunate and loud:
Though pinch'd with hunger, thirst, and cold,
I yet disdain'd to have it told.
