Ballads

  XVII.

  [His prayer to the Saint Sophia.]

  "And is it thus, O falsest of the saints,
      Thou hearest our complaints?
  Tell me, did ever my attachment falter
      To serve thy altar?
  Was not thy name, ere ever I did sleep,
      The last upon my lip?
  Was not thy name the very first that broke
      From me when I awoke?
  Have I not tried with fasting, flogging, penance,
      And mortified counténance
  For to find favor, Sophy, in thy sight?
      And lo! this night,
  Forgetful of my prayers, and thine own promise,
      Thou turnest from us;
  Lettest the heathen enter in our city,
      And, without pity,
  Murder out burghers, seize upon their spouses,
      Burn down their houses!
  Is such a breach of faith to be endured?
      See what a lurid
  Light from the insolent invader's torches
      Shines on your porches!
  E'en now, with thundering battering-ram and hammer
      And hideous clamor;
  With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, bowmen,
      The conquering foemen,
  O Sophy! beat your gate about your ears,
      Alas! and here's
  A humble company of pious men,
      Like muttons in a pen,
  Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be thrusted,
      Because in you they trusted.
  Do you not know the Calmuc chiefs desires—
      KILL ALL THE FRIARS!
  And you, of all the saints most false and fickle,
      Leave us in this abominable pickle."

  [The statue suddenlie speaks;]

  "RASH HYACINTHUS!"
    (Here, to the astonishment of all her backers,
  Saint Sophy, opening wide her wooden jaws,
    Like to a pair of German walnut-crackers,
  Began), "I did not think you had been thus,—
  O monk of little faith!  Is it because
  A rascal scum of filthy Cossack heathen
  Besiege our town, that you distrust in ME, then?
  Think'st thou that I, who in a former day
  Did walk across the Sea of Marmora
  (Not mentioning, for shortness, other seas),—
  That I, who skimmed the broad Borysthenes,
  Without so much as wetting of my toes,
  Am frightened at a set of men like THOSE?
  I have a mind to leave you to your fate:
  Such cowardice as this my scorn inspires."

  [But is interrupted by the breaking in of the Cossacks.]

  Saint Sophy was here
    Cut short in her words,—
  For at this very moment in tumbled the gate,
  And with a wild cheer,
    And a clashing of swords,
  Swift through the church porches,
  With a waving of torches,
  And a shriek and a yell
  Like the devils of hell,
  With pike and with axe
  In rushed the Cossacks,—
  In rushed the Cossacks, crying,
  "MURDER THE FRIARS!"

  [Of Hyacinth, his outrageous address;]

  Ah! what a thrill felt Hyacinth,
    When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc!
  Now, thought he, my trial beginneth;
    Saints, O give me courage and pluck!
  "Courage, boys, 'tis useless to funk!"
    Thus unto the friars he began:
  "Never let it be said that a monk
    Is not likewise a gentleman.
  Though the patron saint of the church,
    Spite of all that we've done and we've pray'd,
  Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch,
    Hang it, gentlemen, who's afraid!"

  [And preparation for dying.]

  As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke,
    He, with an air as easy and as free as
  If the quick-coming murder were a joke,
  Folded his robes around his sides, and took
  Place under sainted Sophy's legs of oak,
    Like Caesar at the statue of Pompeius.
  The monks no leisure had about to look
  (Each being absorbed in his particular case),
  Else had they seen with what celestial race
  A wooden smile stole o'er the saint's mahogany face.

  [Saint Sophia, her speech.]

  "Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my son!"
    Thus spoke the sainted statue.
  "Though you doubted me in the hour of need,
  And spoke of me very rude indeed,
  You deserve good luck for showing such pluck,
    And I won't be angry at you."

  [She gets on the prior's shoulder straddle-back,]

  The monks by-standing, one and all,
    Of this wondrous scene beholders,
    To this kind promise listened content,
    And couldn't contain their astonishment,
    When Saint Sophia moved and went
  Down from her wooden pedestal,
    And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs,
      Round Hyacinthus's shoulders!

  [And bids him run.]

  "Ho! forwards," cried Sophy, "there's no time for waiting,
  The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in:
  See the glare of their torches shines red through the grating;
    We've still the back door, and two minutes or more.
  Now boys, now or never, we must make for the river,
    For we only are safe on the opposite shore.
  Run swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran,—
  Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man;
  And I'll lay five to two that you carry us through,
    Only scamper as fast as you can."

  XVIII.

  [He runneth,]

  Away went the priest through the little back door,
  And light on his shoulders the image he bore:
    The honest old priest was not punished the least,
  Though the image was eight feet, and he measured four.
  Away went the prior, and the monks at his tail
  Went snorting, and puffing, and panting full sail;
    And just as the last at the back door had passed,
  In furious hunt behold at the front
  The Tartars so fierce, with their terrible cheers;
  With axes, and halberts, and muskets, and spears,
  With torches a-flaming the chapel now came in.
  They tore up the mass-book, they stamped on the psalter,
  They pulled the gold crucifix down from the altar;
  The vestments they burned with their blasphemous fires,
  And many cried, "Curse on them! where are the friars?"
  When loaded with plunder, yet seeking for more,
  One chanced to fling open the little back door,
  Spied out the friars' white robes and long shadows
  In the moon, scampering over the meadows,
  And stopped the Cossacks in the midst of their arsons,
  By crying out lustily, "THERE GO THE PARSONS!"

  [And the Tartars after him.]

  With a whoop and a yell, and a scream and a shout,
  At once the whole murderous body turned out;
  And swift as the hawk pounces down on the pigeon,
  Pursued the poor short-winded men of religion.

  [How the friars sweated.]

  When the sound of that cheering came to the monks' hearing,
    O heaven! how the poor fellows panted and blew!
  At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to running,
    When the Tartars came up, what the deuce should they do?
  "They'll make us all martyrs, those bloodthirsty Tartars!"
    Quoth fat Father Peter to fat Father Hugh.
  The shouts they came clearer, the foe they drew nearer;
    Oh, how the bolts whistled, and how the lights shone!
  "I cannot get further, this running is murther;
    Come carry me, some one!" cried big Father John.
  And even the statue grew frightened, "Od rat you!"
    It cried, "Mr. Prior, I wish you'd get on!"
  On tugged the good friar, but nigher and nigher
  Appeared the fierce Russians, with sword and with fire.
  On tugged the good prior at Saint Sophy's desire,—
  A scramble through bramble, through mud, and through mire,
  The swift arrows' whizziness causing a dizziness,
  Nigh done his business, fit to expire.

  [And the pursuers fixed arrows into their tayles.]

  Father Hyacinth tugged, and the monks they tugged after:
  The foemen pursued with a horrible laughter,
  And hurl'd their long spears round the poor brethren's ears,
  So true, that next day in the coats of each priest,
  Though never a wound was given, there were found
  A dozen arrows at least.

  [How at the last gasp,]

  Now the chase seemed at its worst,
  Prior and monks were fit to burst;
  Scarce you knew the which was first,
    Or pursuers or pursued;
  When the statue, by heaven's grace,
  Suddenly did change the face
  Of this interesting race,
    As a saint, sure, only could.

  For as the jockey who at Epsom rides,
    When that his steed is spent and punished sore,
  Diggeth his heels into the courser's sides,
    And thereby makes him run one or two furlongs more;
    Even thus, betwixt the eighth rib and the ninth,
  The saint rebuked the prior, that weary creeper;
    Fresh strength into his limbs her kicks imparted,
  One bound he made, as gay as when he started.

  [The friars won, and jumped into Borysthenes fluvius.]

  Yes, with his brethren clinging at his cloak,
    The statue on his shoulders—fit to choke—
    One most tremendous bound made Hyacinth,
  And soused friars, statue, and all, slap-dash into the Dnieper!

  XIX.

  [And how the Russians saw]

  And when the Russians, in a fiery rank,
    Panting and fierce, drew up along the shore;
    (For here the vain pursuing they forbore,
  Nor cared they to surpass the river's bank,)
  Then, looking from the rocks and rushes dank,
    A sight they witnessed never seen before,
  And which, with its accompaniments glorious,
  Is writ i' the golden book, or liber aureus.

  [The statue get off Hyacinth his back, and sit down with the friars
  on Hyacinth his cloak.]

  Plump in the Dnieper flounced the friar and friends—
    They dangling round his neck, he fit to choke.
    When suddenly his most miraculous cloak
  Over the billowy waves itself extends,
  Down from his shoulders quietly descends
    The venerable Sophy's statue of oak;
  Which, sitting down upon the cloak so ample,
  Bids all the brethren follow its example!

  [How in this manner of boat they sayled away.]

  Each at her bidding sat, and sat at ease;
    The statue 'gan a gracious conversation,
    And (waving to the foe a salutation)
  Sail'd with her wondering happy protégés
  Gayly adown the wide Borysthenes,
    Until they came unto some friendly nation.
  And when the heathen had at length grown shy of
  Their conquest, she one day came back again to Kioff.

  XX.

  [Finis, or the end.]

  THINK NOT, O READER, THAT WE'RE LAUGHING AT YOU;
  YOU MAY GO TO KIOFF NOW, AND SEE THE STATUTE!

  LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.

  My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
    How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
  I have no money, I lie in pawn,
    A stranger in the town of Lille.

  I.

  With twenty pounds but three weeks since
    From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel,
  I thought myself as rich a prince
    As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

  Confiding in my ample means—
    In troth, I was a happy chiel!
  I passed the gates of Valenciennes,
    I never thought to come by Lille.

  I never thought my twenty pounds
    Some rascal knave would dare to steal;
  I gayly passed the Belgic bounds
    At Quiévrain, twenty miles from Lille.

  To Antwerp town I hasten'd post,
    And as I took my evening meal
  I felt my pouch,—my purse was lost,
    O Heaven!  Why came I not by Lille?

  I straightway called for ink and pen,
    To grandmamma I made appeal;
  Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten
    I borrowed from a friend so leal.

  I got the cash from grandmamma
    (Her gentle heart my woes could feel,)
  But where I went, and what I saw,
    What matters?  Here I am at Lille.

  My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
    How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
  I have no cash, I lie in pawn,
    A stranger in the town of Lille.

  II.

  To stealing I can never come,
    To pawn my watch I'm too genteel,
  Besides, I left my watch at home,
    How could I pawn it then at Lille?

  "La note," at times the guests will say.
    I turn as white as cold boil'd veal;
  I turn and look another way,
    I dare not ask the bill at Lille.

  I dare not to the landlord say,
    "Good sir, I cannot pay your bill;"
  He thinks I am a Lord Anglais,
    And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

  He thinks I am a Lord Anglais,
    Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel,
  And so he serves me every day
   The best of meat and drink in Lille.

  Yet when he looks me in the face
    I blush as red as cochineal;
  And think did he but know my case,
    How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.

  My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
    How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
  I have no money, I lie in pawn,
    A stranger in the town of Lille.

  III.

  The sun bursts out in furious blaze,
    I perspirate from head to heel;
  I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise,
    How can I, without cash at Lille?

  I pass in sunshine burning hot
    By cafés where in beer they deal;
  I think how pleasant were a pot,
    A frothing pot of beer of Lille!

  What is yon house with walls so thick,
    All girt around with guard and grille?
  O gracious gods! it makes me sick,
    It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille!

  O cursed prison strong and barred,
    It does my very blood congeal!
  I tremble as I pass the guard,
    And quit that ugly part of Lille.

  The church-door beggar whines and prays,
    I turn away at his appeal
  Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways!
    You're not the poorest man in Lille.

  My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
    How shall I e'er any woes reveal?
  I have no money, I lie in pawn,
    A stranger in the town of Lille.

  IV.

  Say, shall I to you Flemish church,
    And at a Popish altar kneel?
  Oh, do not leave me in the lurch,—
    I'll cry, ye patron-saints of Lille!

  Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops,
    Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal,
  Look kindly down! before you stoops
    The miserablest man in Lille.

  And lo! as I beheld with awe
    A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real),
  It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!—
    It did! and I had hope in Lille!

  'Twas five o'clock, and I could eat,
    Although I could not pay my meal:
  I hasten back into the street
    Where lies my inn, the best Lille.

  What see I on my table stand,—
    A letter with a well-known seal?
  'Tis grandmamma's!  I know her hand,—
    "To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille."

  I feel a choking in my throat,
    I pant and stagger, faint and reel!
  It is—it is—a ten-pound note,
    And I'm no more in pawn at Lille!

  [He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the
  bosom of his happy family.]

  Know ye the willow-tree
    Whose gray leaves quiver,
  Whispering gloomily
    To yon pale river;
  Lady, at even-tide
    Wander not near it,
  They say its branches hide
    A sad, lost spirit?

  Once to the willow-tree
    A maid came fearful,
  Pale seemed her cheek to be,
    Her blue eye tearful;
  Soon as she saw the tree,
    Her step moved fleeter,
  No one was there—ah me!
    No one to meet her!

  Quick beat her heart to hear
    The far bell's chime
  Toll from the chapel-tower
    The trysting time:
  But the red sun went down
    In golden flame,
  And though she looked round,
    Yet no one came!

  Presently came the night,
    Sadly to greet her,—
  Moon in her silver light,
    Stars in their glitter;
  Then sank the moon away
    Under the billow,
  Still wept the maid alone—
    There by the willow!

  Through the long darkness,
    By the stream rolling,
  Hour after hour went on
    Tolling and tolling.
  Long was the darkness,
    Lonely and stilly;
  Shrill came the night-wind,
    Piercing and chilly.

  Shrill blew the morning breeze,
    Biting and cold,
  Bleak peers the gray dawn
    Over the wold.
  Bleak over moor and stream
    Looks the grey dawn,
  Gray, with dishevelled hair,
  Still stands the willow there—
    THE MAID IS GONE!

  Domine, Domine!
    Sing we a litany,—
  Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary;
    Domine, Domine!
  Sing we a litany,
    Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere!

  (ANOTHER VERSION).

  I.

  Long by the willow-trees
    Vainly they sought her,
  Wild rang the mother's screams
    O'er the gray water:
  "Where is my lovely one?
    Where is my daughter?

  II.

  "Rouse thee, sir constable—
    Rouse thee and look;
  Fisherman, bring your net,
    Boatman your hook.
  Beat in the lily-beds,
    Dive in the brook!"

  III.

  Vainly the constable
    Shouted and called her;
  Vainly the fisherman
    Beat the green alder,
  Vainly he flung the net,
    Never it hauled her!

  IV.

  Mother beside the fire
    Sat, her nightcap in;
  Father, in easy chair,
    Gloomily napping,
  When at the window-sill
    Came a light tapping!

  V.

  And a pale countenance
    Looked through the casement.
  Loud beat the mother's heart,
    Sick with amazement,
  And at the vision which
    Came to surprise her,
  Shrieked in an agony—
    "Lor! it's Elizar!"

  VI

  Yes, 'twas Elizabeth—
    Yes, 'twas their girl;
  Pale was her cheek, and her
    Hair out of curl.
  "Mother!" the loving one,
    Blushing, exclaimed,
  "Let not your innocent
    Lizzy be blamed.

  VII.

  "Yesterday, going to aunt
    Jones's to tea,
  Mother, dear mother, I
    FORGOT THE DOOR-KEY!
  And as the night was cold,
    And the way steep,
  Mrs. Jones kept me to
    Breakfast and sleep."

  VIII.

  Whether her Pa and Ma
    Fully believed her,
  That we shall never know,
    Stern they received her;
  And for the work of that
    Cruel, though short, night,
  Sent her to bed without
    Tea for a fortnight.

  IX.

  MORAL

    Hey diddle diddlety,
    Cat and the Fiddlety,
  Maidens of England take caution by she!
    Let love and suicide
    Never tempt you aside,
  And always remember to take the door-key.

  THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF KILBALLYMOLONY.

  Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius,
    Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow,
  Descind from your station and make observation
    Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico.

  This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres,
    (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know;)
  And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure,
    Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico.

  O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is
    Walking magnanimous all of a row,
  Forgetful what state is among the pataties
    And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico.

  There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus,
    Of "God save the Queen" as they hop to and fro;
  And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches,
    Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico.

  There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses
    That round in the gardens resplindently grow,
  Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins,
    Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico.

  You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther,
    Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow,
  A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows
    Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico.

  And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid
    You see on its summit a wondtherful show—
  A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding,
    The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico.

  Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers,
    (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,)
  With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion,
    Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico.

  There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on,
    And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow;
  I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead
    Should find an admission to famed Pimlico.

  O lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O;
    And while round the chamber astonished I go,
  I think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces
    Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico.

  Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,)
    And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below;
  While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers,
    Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico.

  And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it;
    O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow:
  But Sir Ross's best faiture is small mini-áture—
    He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico.

  There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings;
    There's Dyce, as brave masther as England can show;
  And the flowers and the sthrawherries, sure he no dauber is,
    That painted the panels of famed Pimlico.

  In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there's got,
    Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio;
  And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in,
    And ait butther'd muffins in sweet Pimlico.

  There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar,
    Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo;
  Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janins abounds in't;)
    And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico.

  That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce,
    But some I won't mintion is rather so so;
  For sweet philoso'phy, or crumpets and coffee,
    O where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico?

  O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian,
    Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero;
  So heavenly Goddess, d'ye pardon my modesty,
    And silence, my lyre! about sweet Pimlico.

    With ganial foire
    Thransfuse me loyre,
  Ye sacred nympths of Pindus,
    The whoile I sing
    That wondthrous thing,
  The Palace made o' windows!

    Say, Paxton, truth,
    Thou wondthrous youth,
  What sthroke of art celistial,
    What power was lint
    You to invint
  This combineetion cristial.

    O would before
    That Thomas Moore,
  Likewoise the late Lord Boyron,
    Thim aigles sthrong
    Of godlike song,
  Cast oi on that cast oiron!

    And saw thim walls,
    And glittering halls,
  Thim rising slendther columns,
    Which I poor pote,
    Could not denote,
  No, not in twinty vollums.

    My Muse's words
    Is like the bird's
  That roosts beneath the panes there;
    Her wing she spoils
    'Gainst them bright toiles,
  And cracks her silly brains there.

    This Palace tall,
    This Cristial Hall,
  Which Imperors might covet,
    Stands in High Park
    Like Noah's Ark,
  A rainbow bint above it.

    The towers and fanes,
    In other scaynes,
  The fame of this will undo,
    Saint Paul's big doom,
    Saint Payther's Room,
  And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

    'Tis here that roams,
    As well becomes
  Her dignitee and stations,
    Victoria Great,
    And houlds in state
  The Congress of the Nations.

    Her subjects pours
    From distant shores,
  Her Injians and Canajians;
    And also we,
    Her kingdoms three,
  Attind with our allagiance.

    Here come likewise
    Her bould allies,
  Both Asian and Europian;
    From East and West
    They send their best
  To fill her Coornucopean.

    I seen (thank Grace!)
    This wonthrous place
  (His Noble Honor Misther
    H. Cole it was
    That gave the pass,
  And let me see what is there).

    With conscious proide
    I stud insoide
  And look'd the World's Great Fair in,
    Until me sight
    Was dazzled quite,
  And couldn't see for staring.

    There's holy saints
    And window paints,
  By Maydiayval Pugin;
    Alhamborough Jones
    Did paint the tones
  Of yellow and gambouge in.

    There's fountains there
    And crosses fair;
  There's water-gods with urrns:
    There's organs three,
    To play, d'ye see?
  "God save the Queen," by turrns.

    There's Statues bright
    Of marble white,
  Of silver, and of copper;
    And some in zinc,
    And some, I think,
  That isn't over proper.

    There's staym Ingynes,
    That stands in lines,
  Enormous and amazing,
    That squeal and snort
    Like whales in sport,
  Or elephants a-grazing.

    There's carts and gigs,
    And pins for pigs,
  There's dibblers and there's harrows.
    And ploughs like toys
    For little boys,
  And ilegant wheelbarrows.

    For thim genteels
    Who ride on wheels,
  There's plenty to indulge 'em:
    There's Droskys snug
    From Paytersbug,
  And vayhycles from Bulgium.

    There's Cabs on Stands
    And Shandthry danns;
  There's Waggons from New York here;
    There's Lapland Sleighs
    Have cross'd the seas,
  And Jaunting Cyars from Cork here.

    Amazed I pass
    From glass to glass,
  Deloighted I survey 'em;
    Fresh wondthers grows
    Before me nose
  In this sublime Musayum!

    Look, here's a fan
    From far Japan,
  A sabre from Damasco:
    There's shawls ye get
    From far Thibet,
  And cotton prints from Glasgow.

    There's German flutes,
    Marocky boots,
  And Naples Macaronies;
    Bohaymia
    Has sent Bohay;
  Polonia her polonies.

    There's granite flints
    That's quite imminse,
  There's sacks of coals and fuels,
    There's swords and guns,
    And soap in tuns,
  And Gingerbread and Jewels.

    There's taypots there,
    And cannons rare;
  There's coffins fill'd with roses;
    There's canvas tints,
    Teeth insthrumints,
  And shuits of clothes by MOSES.

    There's lashins more
    Of things in store,
  But thim I don't remimber;
    Nor could disclose
    Did I compose
  From May time to Novimber!

    Ah, JUDY thru!
    With eyes so blue,
  That you were here to view it!
    And could I screw
    But tu pound tu,
  'Tis I would thrait you to it!

    So let us raise
    Victoria's praise,
  And Albert's proud condition,
    That takes his ayse
    As he surveys
  This Cristial Exhibition.

  1851.

  O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons,
    And read what the peepers report?
  They're goan to recal the Liftinant,
    And shut up the Castle and Coort!

  Our desolate counthry of Oireland,
    They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy,
  And now having murdthered our counthry,
    They're goin to kill the Viceroy, Dear boy;
    'Twas he was our proide and our joy!

  And will we no longer behould him,
    Surrounding his carriage in throngs,
  As he weaves his cocked-hat from the windies,
    And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs?
  I liked for to see the young haroes,
    All shoining with sthripes and with stars,
  A horsing about in the Phaynix,
    And winking the girls in the cyars,
             Like Mars,
    A smokin' their poipes and cigyars.

  Dear Mitchell exoiled to Bermudies,
    Your beautiful oilids you'll ope,
  And there'll be an abondance of croyin'
   From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope,
  When they read of this news in the peepers,
    Acrass the Atlantical wave,
  That the last of the Oirish Liftinints
    Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave.  God save
    The Queen—she should betther behave.

  And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet,
    And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts,
  Whin the Coort of imparial splindor
  From Doblin's sad city departs?
  And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers,
    When the deuce of a Coort there remains?
  And where'll be the bucks and the ladies,
    To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains?
             In sthrains,
    It's thus that ould Erin complains!

  There's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy
     'Twas she in the Coort didn't fail,
  And she wanted a plinty of popplin,
    For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail;
  She bought it of Misthress O'Grady,
    Eight shillings a yard tabinet,
  But now that the Coort is concluded,
    The divvle a yard will she get; I bet,
    Bedad, that she wears the old set.

  There's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary,
    They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs';
  Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson,
    They mounted the neatest of wigs.
  When Spring, with its buds and its dasies,
    Comes out in her beauty and bloom,
  Thim tu'll never think of new jasies,
    Becase there is no dthrawing-room,
             For whom
    They'd choose the expense to ashume.

  There's Alderman Toad and his lady,
    'Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort,
  And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters,
    To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort.
  But now that the quality's goin,
    I warnt that the aiting will stop,
  And you'll get at the Alderman's teeble
    The devil a bite or a dthrop,
             Or chop;
    And the butcher may shut up his shop.

  Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin,
    And his Lordship, the dear honest man,
  And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy,
    And Corry, the bould Connellan,
  And little Lord Hyde and the childthren,
    And the Chewter and Governess tu;
  And the servants are packing their boxes,—
    Oh, murther, but what shall I due
             Without you?
    O Meery, with ois of the blue!

  GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL
  COMPANY.

  O will ye choose to hear the news,
    Bedad I cannot pass it o'er:
  I'll tell you all about the Ball
    To the Naypaulase Ambassador.
  Begor! this fête all balls does bate
    At which I've worn a pump, and I
  Must here relate the splendthor great
    Of th' Oriental Company.

  These men of sinse dispoised expinse,
    To fête these black Achilleses.
  "We'll show the blacks," says they, "Almack's,
    And take the rooms at Willis's."
  With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls,
    They hung the rooms of Willis up,
  And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls,
    With roses and with lilies up.

  And Jullien's band it tuck its stand,
    So sweetly in the middle there,
  And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes,
    And violins did fiddle there.
  And when the Coort was tired of spoort,
    I'd lave you, boys, to think there was
  A nate buffet before them set,
    Where lashins of good dhrink there was.

  At ten before the ball-room door,
    His moighty Excellincy was,
  He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd,
    So gorgeous and immense he was.
  His dusky shuit, sublime and mute,
    Into the door-way followed him;
  And O the noise of the blackguard boys,
    As they hurrood and hollowed him!

  The noble Chair* stud at the stair,
    And bade the dthrums to thump; and he
  Did thus evince, to that Black Prince,
    The welcome of his Company.
  O fair the girls, and rich the curls,
    And bright the oys you saw there, was;
  And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi,
    On Gineral Jung Bahawther, was!

  This Gineral great then tuck his sate,
    With all the other ginerals,
  (Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat,
    All bleezed with precious minerals;)
  And as he there, with princely air,
    Recloinin on his cushion was,
  All round about his royal chair
    The squeezin and the pushin was.

  O Pat, such girls, such Jukes, and Earls,
    Such fashion and nobilitee!
  Just think of Tim, and fancy him
    Amidst the hoigh gentilitee!
  There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese
    Ministher and his lady there,
  And I reckonized, with much surprise,
   Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there;

  There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno,
    And Baroness Rehausen there,
  And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar
    Well, in her robes of gauze in there.
  There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first,
    When only Mr. Pips he was),
  And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool,
    That after supper tipsy was.

  There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all,
    And Lords Killeen and Dufferin,
  And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife:
    I wondther how he could stuff her in.
  There was Lord Belfast, that by me past,
    And seemed to ask how should I go there?
  And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A Hay,
    And the Marchioness of Sligo there.

  Yes, Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls,
    And pretty girls, was sporting there;
  And some beside (the rogues!) I spied,
    Behind the windies, coorting there.
  O there's one I know, bedad would show
    As beautiful as any there,
  And I'd like to hear the pipers blow,
    And shake a fut with Fanny there!

  * James Matheson, Esq., to whom, and the Board of Directors of the
  Peninsular and Oriental Company, I, Timotheus Molony, late stoker
  on board the "Iberia," the "Lady Mary Wood," the "Tagus," and the
  Oriental steamships, humbly dedicate this production of my grateful
  muse.

    Ye Genii of the nation,
    Who look with veneration.
  And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore;
    Ye sons of General Jackson,
    Who thrample on the Saxon,
  Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore,

    When William, Duke of Schumbug,
    A tyrant and a humbug,
  With cannon and with thunder on our city bore,
    Our fortitude and valiance
    Insthructed his battalions
  To respict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore.

    Since that capitulation,
    No city in this nation
  So grand a reputation could boast before,
    As Limerick prodigious,
    That stands with quays and bridges,
  And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore.

    A chief of ancient line,
    'Tis William Smith O'Brine
  Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more:
    O the Saxons can't endure
    To see him on the flure,
  And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore!

    This valliant son of Mars
    Had been to visit Par's,
  That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor;
    And to welcome his returrn
    From pilgrimages furren,
  We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore.

    Then we summoned to our board
    Young Meagher of the sword:
  'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore;
    And Mitchil of Belfast
    We bade to our repast,
  To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore.

    Convaniently to hould
    These patriots so bould,
  We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store;
    And with ornamints and banners
    (As becomes gintale good manners)
  We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore.

    'Twould binifit your sowls,
    To see the butthered rowls,
  The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore,
    And the muffins and the crumpets,
    And the band of hearts and thrumpets,
  To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore.

    Sure the Imperor of Bohay
    Would be proud to dthrink the tay
  That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour;
    And, since the days of Strongbow,
    There never was such Congo—
  Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it—by Shannon shore.

    But Clarndon and Corry
    Connellan beheld this sworry
  With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core;
    And they hired a gang of ruffins
    To interrupt the muffins,
  And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore.

    When full of tay and cake,
    O'Brine began to spake;
  But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar
    Of a ragamuffin rout
    Began to yell and shout,
  And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore.

    As Smith O'Brine harangued,
    They batthered and they banged:
  Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore;
    They smashed the lovely windies
    (Hung with muslin from the Indies),
  Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore.

    With throwing of brickbats,
    Drowned puppies and dead rats,
  These ruffin democrats themselves did lower;
    Tin kettles, rotten eggs,
    Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs,
  They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.

    O the girls began to scrame
    And upset the milk and crame;
  And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and swore:
    And Mitchil of Belfast,
    'Twas he that looked aghast,
  When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore.

    O the lovely tay was spilt
    On that day of Ireland's guilt;
  Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt!  Boys, where's the back door?
    'Tis a national disgrace:
    Let me go and veil me face;"
  And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore.

    "Cut down the bloody horde!"
    Says Meagher of the sword,
  "This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;"
    But the best use Tommy made
    Of his famous battle blade
  Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore.

    Immortal Smith O'Brine
    Was raging like a line;
  'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar;
    In his glory he arose,
    And he rushed upon his foes,
  But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.

    Then the Futt and the Dthragoons
    In squadthrons and platoons,
  With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore;
    And they bate the rattatoo,
    But the Peelers came in view,
  And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.

  You've all heard of Larry O'Toole,
  Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole;
    He had but one eye,
    To ogle ye by—
  Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l!
    A fool
  He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.

  'Twas he was the boy didn't fail,
  That tuck down pataties and mail;
    He never would shrink
    From any sthrong dthrink,
  Was it whisky or Drogheda ale;
    I'm bail
  This Larry would swallow a pail.

  Oh, many a night at the bowl,
  With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl;
    He's gone to his rest,
    Where's there's dthrink of the best,
  And so let us give his old sowl
    A howl,
  For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl.

  Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle
  Brady.

  On Brady's tower there grows a flower,
    It is the loveliest flower that blows,—
  At Castle Brady there lives a lady,
    (And how I love her no one knows);
  Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora
    Presents her with this blooming rose.

  "O Lady Nora," says the goddess Flora,
    "I've many a rich and bright parterre;
  In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers,
    But you're the fairest lady there:
  Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty,
    Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!"

  What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her!
    Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew.
  Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let,
    That darkly glistens with gentle jew!
  The lily's nature is not surely whiter
    Than Nora's neck is,—and her arrums too.

  "Come, gentle Nora," says the goddess Flora,
    "My dearest creature, take my advice,
  There is a poet, full well you know it,
    Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs,—
  Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry,
    If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise."

  On reading of the general indignation occasioned in Ireland by the
  appointment of a Scotch Professor to one of HER MAJESTY'S Godless
  colleges, MASTER MOLLOY MOLONY, brother of THADDEUS MOLONY, Esq.,
  of the Temple, a youth only fifteen years of age, dashed off the
  following spirited lines:—