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by Apollo, was derived, is a tract famous formerly for Tories and Rapparies, and of more recent times for the manufacture of poteen. It extended for a considerable distance through part of the counties of Dublin, Carlow, Kildare, Kilkenny, and Meath. "The Bog of Allen" was, in short, a vague term for any matter about which an awkward question was likely to be asked. The Editor remembers that a gentleman was once robbed near Cork of a valuable watch, which, a day or two afterwards, was bought by a silversmith in Cork from a man who asserted, with the utmost simplicity, that he had found it in the Bog of Allen!

Jolly Phœbus his car to the coach-house had driven,
And unharnessed his high-mettled horses of light;
gave them a feed from the manger of heaven,
And rubbed them, and littered them up for the night.


Then down to the kitchen he leisurely strode,

Where Thetis, the housemaid, was sipping her tea; He swore he was tired with that damn'd up-hill road, He'd have none of her slops nor hot water, not he.

So she took from the corner a little cruiskeen
Well filled with nectar Apollo loves best;
(From the neat Bog of Allen, some pretty poteen),
And he tippled his quantum and staggered to rest.

His many-caped box-coat around him he threw,

For his bed, faith 'twas dampish, and none of the best; All above him the clouds their bright fringed curtains drew, And the tuft of his nightcap lay red in the west.


This convivial lyric, in which the inspiration of whisky is set forth, appeared in "Blackwood's Magazine" for December 1821, associated with the song of St. Patrick of Ireland, my Dear." The author has entitled it " A real Irish Fly not yet,'" and informs us that it was an impromptu, chanted "on the spur of the occasion," at the time noted, viz. "Four o'clock in the morning, or thereabouts."


Tune-" Lillibullero."

Hark! hark! from below,
The rascally row

Of watchmen, in chorus, bawling "Four!"

But spite of this noise,

My rollocking boys,

We'll stay till we've emptied one bottle more.*


Bumpers-bumpers-flowing bumpers!
Bumper your glasses high up to the brim!

And he who is talking

A word about walking,

Out of the window at once with him!

* Of whisky, viz., about thirteen tumblers.-Author's Note.

+ We pronounce the word generally in Ireland as we sound the ch in church- tchorus. I think it is the prettier way.-Author's Note.

Our whisky is good
As ever yet stood

Steaming on table, in glass or pot:

It came from a still,

Snug under a hill,

Where the eye of the gauger saw it not.

Bumpers, &c.

Then why should we run
Away from the Sun?

Here's to his health, my own elegant men!

We drank to his rest

Last night in the west,

And we'll welcome him, now that he wakes again.

Bumpers, &c.

And here we shall stop,

Until every drop

That charges our bottles is gone, clean gone;

And then, sallying out,

We'll leather the rout*

Who've dared to remind us how time has run.

Bumpers, &c.

* Beating the watch is a pleasant and usual finale to a social party in the metropolis (Dublin). I am compelled myself, now and then, to castigate them, merely for the impertinent clamour they make at night about the hours. Our ancestors must have been in the depths of barbarity when they established this ungentlemanlike custom.— Author's Note.


In contrast to the preceding song, so full of action, may be placed one in which the re-action of " Bumpers, bumpers, flowing bumpers," is exhibited. The Editor has been informed that it was sung with much effect by a man named Eagan at the early meetings of a Temperance Society in the south of Ireland, upon which occasions the lines referring to the suicidal proceeding of hard drinking

"For your own brains out you're dashing :
Don't you feel your head quite sore?"

were always received with marked approbation.

Tune-" Mall Brook."

One night when I got frisky
Over some poteen whisky,
Like waves in the Bay of Biscay,
I began to tumble and roar.
My face was red as a lobster,
I fell and I broke my nob, sir,
My watch was picked from my fob, sir-
Oh, I'll never get drunk any more!

Now I'm resolved to try it,
I'll live upon moderate diet;
I'll not drink, but will deny it,

And shun each alehouse-door;

For that's the place, they tell us,
We meet with all jovial good fellows;
But I swear by the poker and bellows
I'll never get drunk any more.


The landlady is unwilling
To credit you for a shilling;
She straightways sends her bill in,

And asks you to pay your score.
And if with money you're stocked,
She'll not stop till she's emptied your pocket;
Then the cellar-door is locked,

And you cannot get drunk any more.

So by me now take caution,

Put drinking out of fashion,

For your own brains out you're dashing :
Don't you feel your
head quite sore?

For when all night you've tarried
Drinking of punch and claret,

In the morning home you're carried,

(Saying) "I'll never get drunk any more."

A man that's fond of boozing,

His cash goes daily oozing;

His character he's loosing,

And it's loss he will deplore.
His wife is unprotected,
His business is neglected,
Himself is dis-respected,

So, do not get drunk any more.

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