Part 2 — ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME

Three days for answer I have waited, I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated poetaster? Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose Of thy dimension's fit for prose; But every one that knows Dan, knows thy master. Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines, And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1] Thy fame, thy genius, now declines, proud boaster. I hear with some concern your roar And flying think to quit the score, By clapping billets on your door and posts, sir. Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant, I'm grieved to hear your banishment, But pleased to find you do relent and cry on. I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff, But now I'll secret keep your stuff; For know, prostration is enough to th' lion. [Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.—F.]