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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 Excellency was,
So gorgeous and immense he was.
Into the door-way followed him ; And 0 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.
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 !
* 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.
Just think of Tim, and fancy him,
Amidst the hoigh gentilitee!
Ministher and his lady there,
Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there;
There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno,
And Baroness Rehausen there,
Well, in her robes of gauze in there.
When only Mr. Pips he was),
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 spoorting there; And some beside (the rogues !) I spied,
Behind the windies, coorting there. . 0, there's one I know, bedad would show
As beautiful as any there,
And shake a fut with Fanny there!
THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.
YE Genii of the nation,
Who look with veneration,
Ye sons of General Jackson,
Who thrample on the Saxon,
When William, Duke of Schumbug,
A tyrant and a humbug,
Our fortitude and valliance
Insthructed his battalions
Since that capitulation,
No city in this nation
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,
This valliant son of Mars
Had been to visit Paris,
And to welcome his returrn
From pilgrimages furren,
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,
Convaniently to hould
These patriots so bould,
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 harps 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 CongoMitchil 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,
When full of tay and cake,
O’Brine began to spake,
Of a ragamuffin rout
Began to yell and shout,
As Smith O'Brine harangued,
They batthered and they banged :
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,
O the girls began to scrame,
And upset the milk and crame;
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;”.