The harp of Erin, the poetical works of T. Dermody [ed. by J.G. Raymond].

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Seite 109 - And further, his majesty professed, that were he to invite the devil to a dinner, he should have three dishes : first, a pig : second, a poll of ling and mustard; and third, a pipe of tobacco, for digesture.
Seite 108 - The times have been That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end ; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools.
Seite 27 - Rien n'est beau que le vrai : le vrai seul est aimable ; II doit régner partout, et même dans la fable.
Seite 96 - Vile olus, et duris hserentia mora rubetis, Pugnantis stomachi composuere famem. Flumine vicino stultus sitit, et riget Euro, Cum calidus tepido consonat igne rogus Lex armata sedet circum fera limina nuptse, Nil metuit licito fusa puella toro.
Seite 246 - RANK nurse of nonsense; on whose thankless coas-t The base weed thrives, the nobler bloom is lost : Parent of pride and poverty, where dwell Dullness and brogue and calumny : — farewell ! Lo ! from thy land the tuneful prophet flies, And spurns the dust behind in folly's eyes. Merit, bright meteor, o'er thy gloomy night...
Seite 230 - To Pleasure's wiles an easy prey, Beneath this sod a bosom lies, Yet, spare the meek offender's clay, Nor part with dry averted eyes. O, stranger ! if thy wayward lot Through Folly's heedless maze has led, Here nurse the true, the tender thought, And fling the wild flow'r on his head ! For he, by this cold hillock clad, Where tall grass twines the pointed stone, Each gentlest balm of feeling had, To soothe all sorrow but his own. For he, by tuneful Fancy rear'd, (Though, ever dumb, he sleeps below!)...
Seite 207 - Heav'n lend thy soul its surest port, And introduce thee to the court ; Revive again thy earthly sport, And melt thy lead ! Alas ! we mourn ; for, by the mort ! John Baynham's dead. , " No curate now can work thy throat, And alter clean thy jocund note; Charon has plump'd thee in his boat, And run a-head : My curse on death, the meddling sot ! Gay Johnny's dead. ^ With gills of noblest usquebaugh...
Seite 49 - Yet, oh ! be love transform'd to deadly hate, As freezes memory at Marlow's fate : Disastrous bard ! by too much passion warm'd, His fervid breast a menial beauty charm'd ; Nor, vers'd in arts deceitful woman knows, Saw he the prospect of his future woes. Vain the soft plaint, that sordid breast to fire With warmth refin'd or elegant desire; Vain his melodious magic, to impart Affections foreign to th' unfeeling heart ; In guardless ecstacy's delicious glow, He sinks beneath a vassal murd'rers blow.
Seite 209 - how dare you write Such stuff on me, as dead outright ; I think, by this good candle-light, You've earn'da drubbing. ' Pho ! peace,' said I, ' I'll blot it quite ; Aye, by St. Dobbin.
Seite 222 - GUDE faith! with all thy roguish trick, Thy Pegasus has got a kick ; Flat as a tomb-stone, dumb as stick, Thou liest at last: God send, thou gang'st not to old Nick For frolics past! '' I do remember thee right well: Thou didst in witty pranks excel, Can all thy deeds of sly note tell, Thou great verse-fighter; But, ah ! auld Death has borne the bell, And bit the biter. " Right glum * is all thy rhyming glee; Struck mute, who wont to be so free: Yet, yet shall I, on bended knee (Faithfu' Achates...

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