At a Village on the Dunchurch Road,

Between two well-known towns

There lives a man—deny't who can:

With kindness he abounds.

His house, his fare, and fireside,

Are open to the weary—

The rich, the poor, the destitute—

He makes them all like cheery.

’Tis said that Swift, St. Patrick's Dean,

That satirical old sinner,

When on his journey to the North,

Here stopp'd, and took his dinner.

The sign by which the house was known

Was called the Three Crosses;

But not I trow because mine host

Had met with many losses.

However, be that as it may,

The present Landlord's thrifty;

Though in the house he has not liv'd

Years counting up to fifty.

It happen'd on a busy day,

Mine Host was in the cellar,

When Swift began to rant and rave,

And like a calf did bellow.

“Why am I thus to sit alone,

“By Host and Hostess slighted;

“If this is all respect you show,

“I'll have your house endicted.

“Dean Swift's my name; and, Madam, you

“Should first wait on your betters;

“Before you serve the common folk,

“Tend well the Man of Letters.

“And when a person of my rank

“Graces the country round,

“In courtesy and humble mien

“You always should abound.

“Go where I may, my Cloth commands

“Respect the most profound.”

But Swift soon found the angry Dame

Was not to be so humble;

For, in her rage, she told the Dean,

To quit, or cease to grumble.

“Odds bodikins!” mine Hostess adds,

“The Dean has lost his reason!

“To speak or look but at his Grace,

“He'd make you think was treason!”

The Landlord from below had heard

A bustle and disorder;

Quickly ascended to the bar,

To put his dame in order.

Swift's ready wit soon subject found,

And taught the dame a lesson,

That from his lips not to expect

A prayer, or yet a blessing

Says Swift, “upon your casement, there,

“A legacy I leave you:

“’Tis to your wife I do allude;

“Let not the subject grieve you;

“For there you'll find a ready plan,

“To reckon up your losses;

“Though, by my faith, in doing so

“You'll sure increase your Crosses.”