The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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The SCOLD:
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 | The Shamrock |  |
338
The SCOLD:
A SONG.
Some Women take Delight in Dress;
And some in Cards take Pleasure;
Whilst others place their Happiness
In heaping Hoards of Treasure;
In private some delight to kiss,
Their hidden Charms unfolding:
But, all mistake the sovereign Bliss;
There's no such Joy as Scolding.
And some in Cards take Pleasure;
Whilst others place their Happiness
In heaping Hoards of Treasure;
In private some delight to kiss,
Their hidden Charms unfolding:
But, all mistake the sovereign Bliss;
There's no such Joy as Scolding.
The Instant that I ope my Eyes,
Adieu all Day to Silence;
Before my Neighbours they can rise,
They hear my Tongue a Mile hence:
When at the Board I take my Seat,
'Tis one continued Riot;
I eat, and scold, and scold, and eat,
My Clack is ne'er at Quiet.
Adieu all Day to Silence;
Before my Neighbours they can rise,
They hear my Tongue a Mile hence:
When at the Board I take my Seat,
'Tis one continued Riot;
I eat, and scold, and scold, and eat,
My Clack is ne'er at Quiet.
Too fat, too lean, too hot, too cold,
I ever am complaining,
Too raw, too roast, too young, too old,
Each Guest at Table paining:
Let it be Fowl, or Flesh, or Fish,
Though of my own providing,
I still find Fault with every Dish,
Still every Servant chiding.
I ever am complaining,
Too raw, too roast, too young, too old,
Each Guest at Table paining:
Let it be Fowl, or Flesh, or Fish,
Though of my own providing,
I still find Fault with every Dish,
Still every Servant chiding.
339
But, when to Bed I go at Night,
I surely fall a weeping;
For then I lose my great Delight,
How can I scold when sleeping?
But this my Pain doth mitigate,
And soon disperses Sorrow,
Although To-night it be too late,
I'll pay it off To-morrow.
I surely fall a weeping;
For then I lose my great Delight,
How can I scold when sleeping?
But this my Pain doth mitigate,
And soon disperses Sorrow,
Although To-night it be too late,
I'll pay it off To-morrow.
| The Shamrock | |