To The Dean Of St. Patrick's

Dear Sir, Since you in humble wise         Have made a recantation,     From your low bended knees arise;         I hate such poor prostration.     'Tis bravery that moves the brave,         As one nail drives another;     If you from me would mercy have,         Pray, Sir, be such another.     You that so long maintain'd the field         With true poetic vigour;     Now you lay down your pen and yield,         You make a wretched figure.     Submit, but do't with sword in hand,         And write a panegyric     Upon the man you cannot stand;         I'll have it done in lyric:     That all the boys I teach may sing         The achievements of their Chiron;     What conquests my stern looks can bring         Without the help of iron.     A small goose-quill, yclep'd a pen,         From magazine of standish     Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean,         Than any sword we brandish.     My inks my flash, my pens my bolt;         Whene'er I please to thunder,     I'll make you tremble like a colt,         And thus I'll keep you under.                                      THOMAS SHERIDAN.