On the Dean of St. Patrick's Birth-Day Being Nov. 30, St. Andrew's Day
Between the hours of twelve and one,When half the world to rest were gone,Entranced in softest sleep I lay,Forgetful of an anxious day;From every care and labour free,My soul as calm as it could be.The queen of dreams, well pleased to findAn undisturb'd and vacant mind,With magic pencil traced my brain,And there she drew St. Patrick's Dean:I straight beheld on either handTwo saints, like guardian angels, stand,And either claim'd him for their son,And thus the high dispute begun:St. Andrew, first, with reason strong,Maintain'd to him he did belong."Swift is my own, by right divine,All born upon this day are mine."St. Patrick said, "I own this trueSo far he does belong to you:But in my church he's born again,My son adopted, and my Dean.When first the Christian truth I spread,The poor within this isle I fed,And darkest errors banish'd hence,Made knowledge in their place commence:Nay more, at my divine command,All noxious creatures fled the land.I made both peace and plenty smile,Hibernia was my favourite isle;Now his--for he succeeds to me,Two angels cannot more agree.His joy is, to relieve the poor;Behold them weekly at his door!His knowledge too, in brightest rays,He like the sun to all conveys,Shows wisdom in a single page,And in one hour instructs an ageWhen ruin lately stood aroundTh'enclosures of my sacred ground,He gloriously did interpose,And saved it from invading foes;For this I claim immortal SwiftAs my own son, and Heaven's best gift.The Caledonian saint, enraged,Now closer in dispute engaged.Essays to prove, by transmigration,The Dean is of the Scottish nation;And, to confirm the truth, he choseThe loyal soul of great Montrose;"Montrose and he are both the same,They only differ in the name:Both heroes in a righteous cause,Assert their liberties and laws;He's now the same Montrose was then,But that the sword is turn'd a pen,A pen of so great power, each wordDefends beyond the hero's sword."Now words grew high--we can't supposeImmortals ever come to blows,But lest unruly passion shouldDegrade them into flesh and blood,An angel quick from Heaven descends,And he at once the contest ends:"Ye reverend pair, from discord cease,Ye both mistake the present case;One kingdom cannot have pretenceTo so much virtue! so much sense!Search Heaven's record; and there you'll findThat he was born for all mankind."
Words in this poem
- forgetful a.
- Apt to forget; easily losing remembrance; as, a forgetful man should use helps to strengthen his memory.
- isle v. t.
- To cause to become an island, or like an island; to surround or encompass; to island.
- relieve v. t.
- To lift up; to raise again, as one who has fallen; to cause to rise. Piers Plowman. [OE. releven, F. relever to raise again, discharge, relieve, fr. L. relevare to lift up, raise, make light, relieve; pref. re- re- + levare to raise, fr. levis l]
- caledonian a.
- Of or pertaining to Caledonia or Scotland; Scottish; Scotch.
- closer n.
- One who, or that which, closes; specifically, a boot closer. See under Boot.
- transmigration n.
- The act of passing from one country to another; migration. [F. transmigration, L. transmigratio.]
- reverend a.
- Worthy of reverence; entitled to respect mingled with fear and affection; venerable. [F. révérend, L. reverendus, fr. revereri. See Revere.]
- pretence n.
- The act of laying claim; the claim laid; assumption; pretension. [LL. praetensus, for L. praetentus, p. p. of praetendere. See Pretend, and cf. Tension.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
On the Dean of St. Patrick's Birth-Day Being Nov. 30, St. Andrew's Day is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 2, Project Gutenberg ebook #13621; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Jonathan Swift, On the Dean of St. Patrick's Birth-Day Being Nov. 30, St. Andrew's Day, in Poems, Volume II (1710–1745), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #13621, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/swift-poems/on-the-dean-of-st-patrick-s-birth-day-being-nov-30-st-andrew.html, id L09439.
Form and metre
On the Dean of St. Patrick's Birth-Day Being Nov. 30, St. Andrew's Day is 70 lines in a single stanza. It is in rhyming couplets, 77% of the lines: octosyllabic couplets. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 91%). 98% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.1 syllables. 1 line ends on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 17% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in octosyllabic couplets, other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 --AABBCC--DDEEFFGGHH--IIJJKKLLMM--NNOOPPQQRRSSTTUUVV--WW--XXYYZZ----aa one · gone · layA · dayA · freeB · beB · findC · mindC · brain · dean · handD · standD · sonE · begunE · strongF · belongF · divineG · mineG · trueH · youH · again · dean · spreadI · fedI · henceJ · commenceJ · commandK · landK · smileL · isleL · meM · agreeM · poor · door · raysN · conveysN · pageO · ageO · aroundP · groundP · interposeQ · foesQ · swiftR · giftR · enragedS · engagedS · transmigrationT · nationT · choseU · montroseU · sameV · nameV · cause · laws · thenW · penW · word · sword · supposeX · blowsX · shouldY · bloodY · descendsZ · endsZ · cease · case · pretence · sense · finda · mankinda
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Between the hours of twelve and one, | 8 | ···/···· |
| When half the world to rest were gone, | 8 | ········ |
| Entranced in softest sleep I lay, | 8 | ˘/·/˘··· |
| Forgetful of an anxious day; | 8 | ˘/˘··/˘· |
| From every care and labour free, | 8 | ·/˘··/·· |
| My soul as calm as it could be. | 8 | ········ |
| The queen of dreams, well pleased to find | 8 | ········ |
| An undisturb'd and vacant mind, | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| With magic pencil traced my brain, | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| And there she drew St. Patrick's Dean: | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| I straight beheld on either hand | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| Two saints, like guardian angels, stand, | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| And either claim'd him for their son, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| And thus the high dispute begun: | 8 | ····˘/˘/ |
| St. Andrew, first, with reason strong, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Maintain'd to him he did belong. | 8 | ˘/····˘/ |
| "Swift is my own, by right divine, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| All born upon this day are mine." | 8 | ········ |
| St. Patrick said, "I own this true | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| So far he does belong to you: | 8 | ····˘/·· |
| But in my church he's born again, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| My son adopted, and my Dean. | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| When first the Christian truth I spread, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| The poor within this isle I fed, | 8 | ········ |
| And darkest errors banish'd hence, | 8 | ·/˘/˘/˘· |
| Made knowledge in their place commence: | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| Nay more, at my divine command, | 8 | ····˘/˘/ |
| All noxious creatures fled the land. | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| I made both peace and plenty smile, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Hibernia was my favourite isle; | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| Now his--for he succeeds to me, | 8 | ····˘/·· |
| Two angels cannot more agree. | 8 | ·/˘/˘·˘/ |
| His joy is, to relieve the poor; | 8 | ····˘/·· |
| Behold them weekly at his door! | 8 | ˘/·/˘··· |
| His knowledge too, in brightest rays, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| He like the sun to all conveys, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Shows wisdom in a single page, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| And in one hour instructs an age | 8 | ···/˘/·· |
| When ruin lately stood around | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| Th'enclosures of my sacred ground, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| He gloriously did interpose, | 8 | ·/˘˘··˘/ |
| And saved it from invading foes; | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| For this I claim immortal Swift | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| As my own son, and Heaven's best gift. | 9 | ·····/˘·· |
| The Caledonian saint, enraged, | 8 | ··˘/˘·˘/ |
| Now closer in dispute engaged. | 8 | ·/˘·˘/˘/ |
| Essays to prove, by transmigration, | 9 | ˘/······· |
| The Dean is of the Scottish nation; | 9 | ·····/˘/˘ |
| And, to confirm the truth, he chose | 8 | ··˘/···· |
| The loyal soul of great Montrose; | 8 | ·/˘···/· |
| "Montrose and he are both the same, | 8 | /······· |
| They only differ in the name: | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| Both heroes in a righteous cause, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Assert their liberties and laws; | 8 | ˘/·/˘˘·· |
| He's now the same Montrose was then, | 8 | ····/··· |
| But that the sword is turn'd a pen, | 8 | ········ |
| A pen of so great power, each word | 8 | ·····/·· |
| Defends beyond the hero's sword." | 8 | ˘/···/˘· |
| Now words grew high--we can't suppose | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Immortals ever come to blows, | 8 | ˘/˘/˘··· |
| But lest unruly passion should | 8 | ··˘/˘/˘· |
| Degrade them into flesh and blood, | 8 | ˘/······ |
| An angel quick from Heaven descends, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘/ |
| And he at once the contest ends: | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| "Ye reverend pair, from discord cease, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Ye both mistake the present case; | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| One kingdom cannot have pretence | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| To so much virtue! so much sense! | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Search Heaven's record; and there you'll find | 9 | ·/˘/˘···· |
| That he was born for all mankind." | 8 | ······// |
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