The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A Pastoral Dialogue between Dermot and Sheelah
A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728.
Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;
While each with stubbed knife remov’d the roots,
That rais'd between the stones their daily shoots;
As at their work they sate in counterview,
With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew.
Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly-flowing strain
The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.
My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt,
Than strongest weeds that grow these stones betwixt:
My spud these nettles from the stones can part;
No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart,
My love for gentle Dermot faster grows,
Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose.
Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O!
Love rooted out, again will never grow.
No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake:
(I spare the thistles for sir Arthur's sake)
Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat;
The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.
Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide;
This petticoat shall save thy dear backside;
Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet,
Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat.
In at the pantry door this morn I slipt,
And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt:
Dennis was out, and I got hither safe;
And thou, my dear, shalt have the bigger half.
When you saw Tady at long bullets play,
You sate and lous'd him all a sunshine day:
How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales,
Or crack such lice as his between your nails?
When you with Oonah stood behind a ditch,
I peep'd, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch:
Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts?
I almost wish'd this spud were in your guts.
If Oonah once I kiss'd, forbear to chide;
Her aunt's my gossip by my father's side:
But, if I ever touch her lips again,
May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain!
Dermot, I swear, though Tady's locks could hold
Ten thousand lice, and every louse was gold;
Him on my lap you never more shall see;
Or may I lose my weeding-knife — and thee!