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Best Famous Jonathan Swift Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Jonathan Swift poems. This is a select list of the best famous Jonathan Swift poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Jonathan Swift poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Jonathan Swift poems.

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by Jonathan Swift | |


 Charming oysters I cry:
My masters, come buy,
So plump and so fresh,
So sweet is their flesh,
No Colchester oyster
Is sweeter and moister:
Your stomach they settle,
And rouse up your mettle:
They'll make you a dad
Of a lass or a lad;
And madam your wife
They'll please to the life;
Be she barren, be she old,
Be she slut, or be she scold,
Eat my oysters, and lie near her,
She'll be fruitful, never fear her.

by Jonathan Swift | |

A Description of the Morning

 Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach
Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, And softly stole to discompose her own.
The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs, Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace The kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep; Till drown'd in shriller notes of "chimney-sweep.
" Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half a street.
The turnkey now his flock returning sees, Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees.
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands; And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.

by Jonathan Swift | |

Stellas Birthday March 13 1719

 Stella this day is thirty-four, 
(We shan't dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled,
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declin'd;
Made up so largely in thy mind.
Oh, would it please the gods to split Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit; No age could furnish out a pair Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; With half the lustre of your eyes, With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late, How should I beg of gentle Fate, (That either nymph might have her swain,) To split my worship too in twain.

by Jonathan Swift | |

The Place of the Damned

 All folks who pretend to religion and grace,
Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place:
But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined
The place of the damned -I'll tell you my mind.
Wherever the damned do chiefly abound, Most certainly there is HELL to be found: Damned poets, damned critics, damned blockheads, damned knaves, Damned senators bribed, damned prostitute slaves; Damned lawyers and judges, damned lords and damned squires; Damned spies and informers, damned friends and damned liars; Damned villains, corrupted in every station; Damned time-serving priests all over the nation; And into the bargain I'll readily give you Damned ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy.
Then let us no longer by parsons be flammed, For we know by these marks the place of the damned: And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome.
How happy for us that it is not at home!

by Jonathan Swift | |

On Stellas Birth-Day 1719

 Stella this Day is thirty four,
(We shan't dispute a Year or more)
However Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy Size and Years are doubled,
Since first I saw Thee at Sixteen
The brightest Virgin on the Green,
So little is thy Form declin'd
Made up so largely in thy Mind.
Oh, woud it please the Gods to split Thy Beauty, Size, and Years, and Wit, No Age could furnish out a Pair Of Nymphs so graceful, Wise and fair With half the Lustre of your Eyes, With half your Wit, your Years and Size: And then before it grew too late, How should I beg of gentle Fate, (That either Nymph might have her Swain,) To split my Worship too in twain.

by Jonathan Swift | |

A Maypole

 Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
And such is my prolific power,
They bloom in less than half an hour;
Yet standers-by may plainly see
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round, And yet I firmly stand my ground: All over naked I am seen, And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the land E'er joined such numbers hand in hand.
I joined them fairly with a ring; Nor can our parson blame the thing.
And though no marriage words are spoke, They part not till the ring is broke; Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, I'm but an idol raised on high; And once a weaver in our town, A damned Cromwellian, knocked me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty years, And then the jovial cavaliers To their old post restored all three - I mean the church, the king, and me.

by Jonathan Swift | |

Advice to the Grub Street Verse-writers

 Ye poets ragged and forlorn,
Down from your garrets haste;
Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born,
Not yet consign'd to paste;
I know a trick to make you thrive;
O, 'tis a quaint device:
Your still-born poems shall revive,
And scorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair, Then let them well be dried; And Curll must have a special care To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing Pope; And when he sets to write, No letter with an envelope Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill'd the margins round, Why then recall your loan; Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, And swear they are your own.