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ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S BIRTHDAY.
BEING ON NOV. 30, ST. ANDREW'S DAY.
BETWEEN the hours of twelve and one,
When half the world to rest were gone,
Entranced in softest sleep I lay,
Forgetful of an anxious day;
From every care and labour free,
My soul as calm as it could be.
The queen of dreams, well pleas'd to find
An undisturb'd and vacant mind,
With magick pencil trac'd my brain,
And there she drew St. Patrick's dean;
I straight beheld on either hand
Two saints, like guardian angels, stand,
And either claim'd him for their son,
And thus the high dispute begun:
St. Andrew first, with reason strong,
Maintain'd to him he did belong.
"Swift is my own, by right divine,
All born upon this day are mine."
St. Patrick said, "I own this true,
So far he does belong to you:
But in my church he's born again,
My son adopted, and my dean.
When first the Christian truth I spread,
The poor within this isle I fed,
And darkest errours banish'd hence,
Made knowledge in their place commence:
