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They were capital hands at the trade,
And drank till they fell: yet, by jingo,

The pot still frothed over the brim !

Next day, quoth his host, ""Tis a fast,
And I've naught in my larder but mutton;
And on Fridays, who'd make such repast,
Except an unchristian-like glutton?"
Says Pat, "Cease your nonsense, I beg,
What you tell me is nothing but gammon;
Take my compliments down to the leg,
And bid it come hither a salmon !"

And the leg most politely complied!

You've heard, I suppose, long ago,

How the snakes, in a manner most antic,

He marched to the County Mayo,

And trundled them into th' Atlantic.

Hence, not to use water for drink,

The people of Ireland determine:

With mighty good reason, I think,

Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin,
And vipers, and such other stuff!

Oh! he was an elegant blade

As you'd meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper;*

And though under the sod he is laid,

Yet here goes his health in a bumper!

*Fairhead is the north-east cape of Ireland; Kilcrumper is a ruined church, and ancient burial ground, between Fermoy and Kilworth, in the county of Cork, the southern county of Ireland.

I wish he was here, that my glass
He might by art magic replenish;
But since he is not-why, alas!
My ditty must come to a finish,

Because all the liquor is out!

ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN PARIS.

From a manuscript copy in the autograph of Sir Jonah Barrington, indorsed, "Sung with great applause at a meeting which assembled in the City of Paris, to celebrate the anniversary of the Saint of Hibernia." This was, probably, the 17th March, 1816.

Tune -" Patrick's day in the morning."

While peace spreads her wings o'er the different nations,
And a thirst for improvement invites us to roam;
Let us seek for those virtues that grace other stations,
And the good of all countries import to our home.
Let the bustle of war, and roar of the cannon,
In the loud song of mirth be never forgot:

On the banks of the Seine, and the banks of the Shannon,
Let each Irishman sing

To his country and king;

And let each honest heart, whether Irish or not,

Religiously think

'Tis his duty to drink

On St. Patrick's day in the morning!

In this hour of our pride let's do justice to merit,
And grant to each nation its title to fame;
Nor e'er let a grov'ling, illiberal spirit,

Obscure our bright laurels or sully our name.
Let the bustle of war, and the roar of the cannon,
In the loud song of mirth be for ever forgot:

On the banks of the Seine, &c.

When the hardy old Gaul, long accustomed to danger,
Shall fight o'er his fields by the cheerful wood fire;
And shall tell to his children the feats of the stranger,
Our name shall be first in the list of the sire.

For, have not all heard the dread roar of our cannon?
Can Wellington's glory be ever forgot

On the banks of the Seine, or the banks of the Shannon? Then let us all sing

To our country and king;

And each honest heart, whether Irish or not,

Religiously think

'Tis his duty to drink

This good Patrick's day in the morning!

THE SHAMROCK.

THE popular notion respecting the shamrock, or trefoil, is, that St. Patrick, by its means, satisfactorily explained to the early converts of Christianity in Ireland, the Trinity in Unity; exhibiting the three leaves attached to one stalk as an illustration.

Miss Beaufort remarks,* that it is "a curious coincidence, the trefoil plant (shamroc and shamrakh in Arabic) having been held sacred in Iran, and considered emblematical of the Persian Triad." (Collect. v. 118.)

"The botanical name of the shamrock, like that of the Scotch thistle, is a matter of dispute. Mr. Bicheno, in an amusing paper read before the Linnean Society, has, with great ingenuity, endeavoured to shew that the wood-sorrel (oxalis acetosella) is the true shamrock; while Dr. Withering and Professor Rennie point out the white clover (trifolium repens); and Mr. Loudon marks the black medick (medicago lupulina) as the genuine national emblem of Ireland."

* "Transactions of the Royal Academy," vol. xv.

That the shamrock was formerly eaten in Ireland as a salad, there appears no reason to doubt. Fynes Moryson, the secretary of Queen Elizabeth's lord-deputy, Mountjoy, treating of the diet and customs of the "wild Irish," says, "they willingly eat the herb shamrock, being of a sharp taste, which, as they run and are chased to and fro, they snatch like beasts out of the ditches." Spenser, also, in his "View of the State of Ireland," describing the misery consequent upon the Desmond rebellion, of which he was an eye-witness, speaking of the wretched and famishing Irish, tells us that "if they found a plot of watercresses or shamrocks, there they flocked as to a feast for the time, yet not able long to continue there withal." But these passages, as referring to a period of national distress and famine consequent upon civil warfare, when, according to the authorities quoted, horse-flesh was a luxury, and even dead bodies were taken out of the graves and eaten, do not prove the use of the shamrock as a salad so satisfactorily as the following extract from the humorous poem of" Hesperi-nesographia," descriptive of national manners, where, in the account of an Irish banquet, it is mentioned that,

"Besides all this, vast bundles came

Of sorrel, more than I can name.

And

many sheaves I hear there was

Of shamrocks, and of water-grass,
Which there for curious sallads pass."

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