Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
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PATHETIC HYPATHETICS. |
 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
PATHETIC HYPATHETICS.
Were Hope all my eye,
'Tis a fact I should die—
Her light is much brighter than ten tallow candles;
When crotchets and cares are consuming
Some fanciful spooney, she takes him
Where cowslips and daisies are blooming,
And never entirely forsakes him,
Till Death lays him down in the box without handles.
Handles, handles,
The box without handles,
Till Death lays him down in the box without handles.
'Tis a fact I should die—
Her light is much brighter than ten tallow candles;
When crotchets and cares are consuming
Some fanciful spooney, she takes him
Where cowslips and daisies are blooming,
And never entirely forsakes him,
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Handles, handles,
The box without handles,
Till Death lays him down in the box without handles.
Were Friendship a hum
I could weep o'er my rum,
For I hate to be mixing companionless tumblers,
Even mules, quoth Buffon, are gregarious,
And cats when they turn caterwaulers;
Et moi, I like various contrarious
Assemblies—both punch-drinking bawlers
And sighers of sighs—both your grinners and grumblers.
Grumblers, grumblers,
Your grinners and grumblers,
I have grins for your grinners and growls for your grumblers.
I could weep o'er my rum,
For I hate to be mixing companionless tumblers,
Even mules, quoth Buffon, are gregarious,
And cats when they turn caterwaulers;
Et moi, I like various contrarious
Assemblies—both punch-drinking bawlers
And sighers of sighs—both your grinners and grumblers.
Grumblers, grumblers,
Your grinners and grumblers,
I have grins for your grinners and growls for your grumblers.
Were Love all a hoax,
So that no one could coax
A rich widow to wed, what could well be forlorner?
To be wheedling some innocent charmer,
Who reckons her thousands by thirties,
And hasn't the heart to wear armour
Against Cupid's arrows is, certes,
Far better than moping alone in a corner.
Corner, corner,
Alone in a corner,
More pleasant than kicking your heels in a corner!
So that no one could coax
A rich widow to wed, what could well be forlorner?
To be wheedling some innocent charmer,
Who reckons her thousands by thirties,
And hasn't the heart to wear armour
Against Cupid's arrows is, certes,
Far better than moping alone in a corner.
Corner, corner,
Alone in a corner,
More pleasant than kicking your heels in a corner!
Were Music a bam
I might chatter and cram,
But a seal would be clapped on my Fountains of Feeling.
Oh! nothing melts bosoms at all like
The exquisite tones of a fiddle!
I hop round the room at a ball, like
A hen on a scorching hot griddle!
Good lack! I could bound from the floor to the ceiling.
Ceiling, ceiling,
The floor to the ceiling,
Next night, faith, I'll bob my big head through the ceiling.
I might chatter and cram,
But a seal would be clapped on my Fountains of Feeling.
Oh! nothing melts bosoms at all like
The exquisite tones of a fiddle!
I hop round the room at a ball, like
A hen on a scorching hot griddle!
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Ceiling, ceiling,
The floor to the ceiling,
Next night, faith, I'll bob my big head through the ceiling.
Were Wine all a quiz,
I should wear a long phiz
As I mounted each night to my ninth-story garret.
Though Friendship, the traitress, deceives me,
Though Hope may have long ceased to flatter,
Though Music, sweet infidel, leaves me,
Though Love is my torment, what matter!
I've still such a thing as a rummer of claret.
Claret, claret,
A rummer of claret,
I laugh and grow fat on my rummer of claret.
I should wear a long phiz
As I mounted each night to my ninth-story garret.
Though Friendship, the traitress, deceives me,
Though Hope may have long ceased to flatter,
Though Music, sweet infidel, leaves me,
Though Love is my torment, what matter!
I've still such a thing as a rummer of claret.
Claret, claret,
A rummer of claret,
I laugh and grow fat on my rummer of claret.
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |