As to a noble oak, I lift
Sincerest praise to Jonathan Swift.
His roots draw life from Irish ground,
Much like an oak whose limbs have found
Their way to God and ever vows
To gather kin beneath his boughs.

For progenies of verdant eye,
Long centuries won’t still his cry:
Fairly, tend to one another.
Give yourself to save a brother.
Keep humor in your heart, always.
Love all you can, for all your days.

Strong, as an oak, Swift’s guardian arms
Spread to restrain encroaching charms
Of clergy, in their lofty station,
And monarchs who oppressed the nation.
With skillful hand, his sharp retorts
Pierced magistrates of errant courts.
No crony crook would soon-escape
The slashing tongue that ripped, agape,
The secrets of that plotting mind
Whose cunning schemes were ill inclined.

If England squeezed his last half-tuppence,
Rich squires would get a Swift-comeuppance.
Should thrones command the sound of trumpets,
While royals attend to tea and crumpets,
I have it on the best report
That Swift, because he was the sort
To fashion common sense in script,
Would, in all likelihood, have quipped:
‘Unto His Majesty, the King,
I feel obliged to duly bring
To his most learned eyes, to see
This proposition’s urgency:
Of all the kingdoms that exist,
Yours, the ring most fondly kissed.
Yours, the portrait in the church
Where, if I might for honor, search,
Would, with all haste, throw off my shoe,
Humbly bow myself to you,
And beg your ease to pardon this,
But in one count, I fear you miss -
Expenditures, not low in cost,
In the exchange for battles, lost,
And therefore, armies, i.e. men,
Could rob you of your purse. For when
The wives bring children of the dead,
Now orphaned and your charge, instead,
Would they exceed their worth as knaves
Or the farthing paid for slaves?
It may be best to call a truce;
Call back your arms and set them loose
To stay at home to mind their own
And save your monies for the throne.’

His jibes might well be current-writ,
In timeless relevance and wit.
In Donegal and County Down
And every wayward parish town,
In outstretched love for cause of right -
He reaches, still, to curb the blight
Of unjust hands in earnest toil
Upon his sovereign Irish soil.

It could advance the plight of man
If, Swiftly, we’d do what we can
To practice what the reverend preached
Wherever human rights are breached.
The Dean, with even-handed strokes,
Applied his lash to Crowns and blokes.
To every rogue who mucked the path
Of decency, he gave a bath,
Then threw the filthy water out
Into the streets of highest clout.

His sleight of hand was pure delight.
He criticized, but kept polite,
And would, with subtleties, accuse
Ignoble actions, via ruse,
To ply the wicked till they turned
From evil ways, as they were burned
By fiery pen and speech, verbose,
Prescribed to them in hefty dose
Upon the finding that they ailed
From tainted character, unveiled.

And I suspect the greater part
Felt not the brand iron sear their heart
Until that final stroke of ink,
He penned to them with jeering wink,
Was, for the third time, read again
By eyes, awash with angry stain;
A pus, leached from its scabby plug,
To overflow the dainty rug
That kept offensive feet, a-stinking,
And over-stepping toes from thinking
They had no bounds; which was, in fact
A compliment to Swift’s great tact.

Could I have been but privy to
The correspondence of the few
To send, in vain, some faint reply
Attesting he, so swift and sly,
Had taken unfair liberties
By posting unkind fallacies
Upon their person and their name
To bring them undeserving shame.

What lilt would ride upon my heel
To step inside the spinning wheel
That knits together cunning vapors,
Dispatching fault upon the papers,
To justly cause a righteous rift
From that ready pen of Jonathan Swift!

Where is the flowering, and the yield
That fell, as acorns, on the field?
Where are the lads and maids, well versed,
Who, in Swift-shade, became immersed
In that, which gathers acorns, small,
Gives confidence to grow up tall
And able-bodied in their charge?
To wit: assail the oafs at large!

Who calls attention to the flub
As classically, as he, The Tub?
Who hails the fine Examiner,
Or dares to follow Gulliver,
And there, uncover lineage
That stems from the Augustan Age?

Say, is there none in all your land
Left to dare to reprimand
Those in power, whom you despise,
With your most inward out-turned eyes?
Would Belfast, then, remain untouched
By scolding pamphlet, Swiftly rushed?
Not long, did sinful senator
Or prelate prattle, sinister,
Pretend to speak for public good
While, nearby, grew the Oak that stood
For that, to which he was ordained:
In Christian righteousness, well trained.

Before Swift-sap be much congealed,
I long to find that branch, revealed,
That springs from his pure pedigree
To prove a rightful ancestry.
So, call the heirs of true descent
To roust unruly government,
In that superbly send-up style
Of Swift, once seen on Emerald Isle.
My yearning for the seed to set
Has made the harvest dreary; yet,
I cultivate my hopes to see
An Irish sprig sprout to a tree.

Now, from the distant coasts, have come
Swift parodies – odd brogue and plumb -
From far away, to imitate
Some measure of Swift’s fuller plate -
Imported, common, homespun wit -
The fuel by which the lamp is lit.
For, surely, as the lantern turns,
Kilkenny sparks green-eyed concerns
To set the province - oft and hard -
A-fire with envious regard.

Does not the Irish blood desire
Or, from the lack of it, draw ire
From homeland’s sons’ and daughters’ hearts
That, ne’er a native flung their darts
As skillfully as one of those
Swift wanna-be American Joes?

I would not, in the least, place blame
Upon one wholesome Irish name
But, it might render out the good
(And despots in the neighborhood)
From Godly-minded citizens,
Those law-abiding denizens
Of hearth and home and family pride,
Who have been cruelly, sorely tried.
Whom, sickened by the swelling stye,
Should, as a poultice, there apply
This preparation, meant to cure
That oozing of those less than pure.
And, eager to regain the health
Of their uncommon commonwealth,
Might rustle up their courage, then
Confront the lions, in their den.

As, in the likewise manner, Swift
Gave, without apology, his gift
To ravenous beasts who growled, “Me first!”
A remedy to quench their thirst -
A strong elixir, honey-dipped,
At once, was stirred and guzzle-tipped
Into the gullets of the proud -
Their gluttony, he disallowed:
‘Discourteous sirs, not to be rude,
But you are found out to be crude -
Insufferable to all the people
Beneath the church, (whate’er the steeple).
Now further, we require in truth,
An eye for eye, a tooth for tooth.
So, if it would your lordships please,
To bend upon your greedy knees,
We Lilliputians have assembled,
(In raging flames your vice has kindled)
To heave the pail by which to douse
The blaze inflicted on our house
By such as those would gain their place
By treading on the common face.’

If every village bands together
All Ireland could be made the better!
Does no one care, from County Clare,
To breathe dishonest Dublin air
To then exhale a blasted draft
Upon the heads of Ulster’s daft?
Go! By Swift’s method, there inquire
At every puff, illicit fire.
If smoldering rubbish is removed,
The stench of air will be improved.

How pliant was the thrashing switch
Swift brandished on the dev’lish itch
That showed itself, in no small patch,
Upon the Whigs, he dared to scratch.

Whose lightning strike has ever shone
More brilliantly from Blarney Stone,
Than Swiftly guided thunder bolts
Aimed at the Parliamentary dolts,
Or given quite as sour a glance
To min’sters of ungodly stance?

From leprechauns to lunatics,
Of civil trial or politics,
Not much escaped the Swift fell-swoop
Of that master slinger of the poop.

Methinks - though likely would be oddest -
Surmising his Proposal, Modest,
To gather that old Swift had fathered
At least one child, of which, he authored
His remarks, at its conclusion.
(It may’ve been his [or my] delusion.)

But, modesty be put aside,
What other spoof, so deft-applied,
Could more contain that gift of clan
Or earn that sweet Swift label than
This most sarcastic masterpiece,
Or thus, Swift’s accolades increase?

In kindred spirit, liken me
To Swift, that ancient, great oak tree!
Give me that knack for lampooned stories
To emulate his inventories!

What heir of close (or distant) line
Springs forth such witty verse, as mine?
Could genealogies conspire
To better, keep the Swift-satire?

If leading lines of loyalty
Could merit Swift’s heredity,
Then, even I of foreign birth,
Might perpetuate his worth.

As only, can a dearest friend
Or relative, in love, commend,
I claim adoption; spliced into
That Father Oak, from which I drew
My life-blood from that Swift-acorn
And suckled, as one newly born,
To cast a bud of token oak;
On hybrid birthright, spread his cloak.

Now, barristers, uphold the law -
Declare my right of legal draw!
I’m privileged to make this pledge:
As next-of-kin, my heritage
Will ever live in Swift acclaim
And credit give to family name.
For, if some Irish luck begets
That pure of heart my blood forgets,
I’ll find, among Swift’s family tree,
A little grafted leaf for me.