Out go its legs, and down you come
Upon your reverend deanship's bum.
Betwixt two stools 'tis often said,
The sitter on the ground is laid;
What praise then to my chairs is due,
Where one performs the feat of two!
Now to the fire, if such there be,
At present nought but smoke we see.
"Come, stir it up" — "Ho — Mr. Joker,
How can I stir it without poker?"
"The bellows take, their batter'd nose
Will serve for poker, I suppose."
Now you begin to rake — alack
The grate has tumbled from its back —
The coals all on the hearth are laid —
"Stay, sir — I'll run and call the maid;
She'll make the fire again complete —
She knows the humour of the grate."
"Pox take your maid, and you together —
This is cold comfort in cold weather."
Now all is right again — the blaze
Suddenly rais'd as soon decays.
Once more apply the bellows — "So —
These bellows were not made to blow —
Their leathern lungs are in decay,
They can't even puff the smoke away."
"And is your reverence vext at that?
Get up in God's name, take your hat;
Hang them, say I, that have no shift;
Come blow the fire, good doctor Swift.
If trifles such as these can tease you,
Plague take those fools that strive to please you.
Therefore no longer be a quarr'ler
Either with me, sir, or my parlour.
