The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dear, hapless youth! the object of my flame,
Believe me still in love, and still the same;
Ev'n now my bosom feels the former fire,
Again thy letter wakes my warm desire;
Again I burn with all a lover's pain,
And greet thee! distant, on Ierne's plain.
Ah! could you think the torments I endure,
(Sad sign! my hopeless passion still is pure)
Lest thou through wilds and dreary desarts go,
Or lie in bogs, a spectacle of woe!
Perhaps, ev'n now deform with sable mire,
You want a warming glass and cheering fire;
Nor canst thou bear their malice so prepense,
Depriv'd of half thy wit and half thy pence.

276

No sullen landlord there will take thee in,
Refuse thy cash, and give the glass of gin!
No! barb'rous men! they, join'd with waiters, fleece
The luckless wretch, and fob the golden piece:
Gods! can the Irish have their hearts so hard?
And will their inns the trav'lling buck discard?
Can all his tales of pleasure and of pain,
Of Dukes cornuted, and of shoeboys slain,
Of puppies pink'd, and beaus by monkies torn,
Of chairmen bilk'd, and watermen forlorn,
Told in the pleasing garb of nature, fail?
Oh! can't they broach a tun of amber ale?
No! though the suppliant prays, devoid of gold,
No frothing vase he gains, of pewter mold;
For him no quarts with foliag'd handles shine,
And letters, carv'd by workmanship divine;
No grooms with blankets toss my love on high,
“And add new monsters to the frighted sky.”
Or plung'd in lakes too muddy for the Muse,
His grizzly locks begrim'd with horrent ooze.
My lover stares! I'll catch him in my arms,
Though ponds and blankets threat with dire alarms!
I'll wring those locks I often oil'd so smart,
When thou, anointed monarch of my heart,
Or laid thy head recumbent on my knee,
And shook thy greasy dripping curls at me.

277

But ah! again my hapless bosom beats,
To think how scribblers fell will maul thy feats,
In murky rhimes their dire allusions cloak,
And ah! for e'er prolong th' infernal joke;
If thou canst keep thy hand from breaking panes,
Trembling from cars, and serenading lanes,
Despise their malice, you shall envy'd be,
Though cynics, curs, and princes laugh at thee.
But ah! my dearest, let not gypsies lead
Thy vagrant wand'rings to the rural mead;
Let dire Drumcondra e'er unheeded lie,
Though teapots, cups, and saucers, court the eye:
Perchance, while bagpipes play, and gibes go round,
Love floats adown thy throttle with the sound;
Or madness lurks beneath the strident strings,
Or French flies load thy draught with fiery wings.
Full many a snare will tempt thy youthful heart,
But, dearest, chief beware of the black cart.
Around the moving engine, watchmen ply,
With hell-hound grin, and turn th' eternal eye.

278

Oh! if their ken should meet thy lovely face,
And mount thee tow'ring, source of dire disgrace;
Their slipshod dames that pour'd the morning note
Have spit-up barriers threat'ning at their throat.
There captive Helens poke through crannied chinks,
There sit the sharper and the am'rous minx;
And oft, to shew the dreadful place has merit,
The cage-coop'd Methodists confess the spirit,
While to the list'ning saints that swear around,
They preach, and nasal twangs return the sound;
Escape but these, and firm in conscious hope,
Despise the challenge, and outbrave the rope.
If scribblers dare thy nobler deeds abuse,
A purse will hush the poet and his muse;
Sweet is the shilling's silver sound to hear,
Substantial jingle in the poet's ear;
For spite of all they write, and all they think,
Poor mortal songsters, sure, must eat and drink.
But, dearest Buck, excuse me when I tell
My soul to thee, because I know thee well.
What trifling scheme, or air-balloon pretence,
Could make thee game, and wager with thy prince,
Give all thy solid chattles to the wind,
Stake all thy wealth, nor leave a wreck behind?
Ah, witless wight! ah little didst thou know,
That supple courtiers schem'd thy future woe;

279

And Foxes waiting for the destin'd luck,
At once turned brave, and hunted for the Buck,
While eager for the money and the fame,
The royal sportsmen called the practice game.

Attic orations, pickled periods, pelt,
With keenest force, but yet they cannot melt;
Nor flow'ry speeches sav'd with Grecian salt,
Nor brilliant puns, could buy a pint of malt.
Thus re-nos'd youths a luckless frog assail,
And pelt the helpless trav'ller head and tail;
But when their prey is dead, with pity pierc'd,
They lay him in a hole, on slate inhears'd;
And when the life is parted from their prize,
They greet his snout with epitaph and cries.
Ah! sad refinement! when he's dead and gone,
In place of bangs and thumps, to give a stone.
Thus you, my love, by wicked courtiers bit,
Paid sterling brass for French-imported wit,
Wit, which though fine, and ready at command,
Is not quite current in your booby land;
True music there comes charming in a rent,
And the best rhimes are plac'd in cent. per cent.
What golden dreams the raptur'd fancy fill,
When George's jingle in the vocal till!
What song so charming as a banker's note?
They have no charms for thee, to grief devote.

280

Alas! no golden dream shall fill thy thought,
No solid gold thy fob, with riches fraught.
Ah! how will Dublin bucks thy spirit warm,
“Mock at thy breeches, and deride thy form!”
Ah! how will Dublin belles contemptuous rail,
And simper at thy alter'd face, so pale!
Full many a bull will knock thy echoing pate,
But bulls in Ireland are but few—of late—
Full many a blood “will lace thy silver skin,”
For thus they riot in excess of sin.
Rouleaus and dress can cure the loss of sense,
But ah! no charm can heal the want of pence;
No dowager for thee will give a ball,
Ah! doom'd to stand unwelcome in the hall.
The printshops oft shall show resemblance quaint,
And thy sweet face run yellow still in paint.
Ill-fated youth, one effort still remains
To ease thy former griefs and future pains,
To wipe the black dishonour from thy face,
“The hangman-grandeur and the shoeboy grace;”
And best of all—Your character shall lose
No heav'nly deed among my parent Jews.
Whether ambitious of a star you vie,
Or city glories catch your judging eye;
If aldermanic feasts can tempt to ease,
And streams of sauce, and spicy hills of geese,

281

Strong-season'd turtles, or the golden ham,
Or hares transfix'd, and metamorphos'd lamb.
Lo! there they lie! oh, grasp thy knife and fork,
There split the turkey-paunch, and scalp the pork;
Ev'n now I see the pork, so red and white;
Yet ah! I am forbid my chief delight!
See icy promontories crown the fish!
Confectionary mountains load the dish!
See mystic viands in the oval tart,
And queen-cakes, emblems of my own sweetheart.
If these can charm thy heart, or turn thy head,
Oh! strew the board with Apennines of dead!
But first—Like sapient Sir John D--- so stout,
Save majesty some thousands by sour-crout.
If stars and garters boast a brighter blaze,
And thistles tempt you greater than the bays,
To China go, and when you come again,
Build bright pagodas on your native plain;
From Spain transport her fragrant orange groves,
Where zebras soon may propagate their loves;
Squirrels and monkies then shall yoke with dogs,
And sweet signoras bless the vocal bogs;
Guitars and bagpipes then shall squeak around,
And all the croaking nations hail the sound!
Apply soft Indian odes to Irish drones,
And be your sacred model Sir Will Jones.

282

But ah! my love, beware of ill-tim'd rage,
Nor leap from twelve foot windows o'er a stage,
Thy legs may suffer, that would grieve my heart,
Yet we have nought to pay the healing art.
The sons of Peon now, of bus'ness full,
Can scarce attend to heal a rich man's skull:
And can they, can they, when in wealth secure,
Attend at all the pennyless and poor?
Ah, no! though bucks have whilom fill'd their jaws,
Yet now they leave them, in a better cause.
Ingratitude, thou constant bane of macs!
And can such brazen gizzards dwell in Quacks?
If parliament delights thee, and a coach,
Study the well-turn'd eloquence of Roach.
Harangue, and stamp, and then harangue again,
And bray the loudest of the long-ear'd train;
Mingle farrago-like your Irish Latin,
And stoutly stun the ear of patriot Grattan.
This, this, will rise you higher than a steeple,
And make you chief defender of the people;
But sure the people, laughing in their sleeves,
Each action mock, for ev'ry action grieves;
You rise Demosthenes in self-esteem,
But if you slumber, does your country dream?

283

No, I repent my counsel—Still be cool,
Nor let the nation totter on a fool:
Full many a babbling Atlas, when grown older,
Has wept the weight of countries on his shoulder;
Full many a statesman had his “back y-bent,”
His country's porter, paid at cent. per cent.
No, love, I wish your blund'ring country well,
For Jews have batten'd there, as bankers tell.
No, love, you shall not help the fall of stocks,
Nor tempt again the cormorant and fox;
They yet have work, while H--- has a pound,
When he is hang'd at last, they may be drown'd;
Then shall their pepper'd quids sublimely hail,
And belles no more the luckless man assail.
Thus when stout chanticleer, with ruby crest,
Adorns the stake, and bares his glowing breast,
The hens and chickens pensive stalk around,
Now peck a grain, then shudder at his wound,
Their plumage ruffle when they see his blood,
Scream loud, and shake their tails besprent with mud;
But when through clarion beak he breathes his last,
They yield to fate, and quite forget the past,
Run flaunting through the channel in a row,
T' attract the notice of some dunghill beau,
And in most melancholy moans they sigh
Their widow'd wand'rings to the cock on high!

284

Thus have I labour'd for thy good, and laid
Thy last kind letter underneath my head.
But oh! unhappy hunger! rats have tore
Thy lovely scrawl, and rent my night-cap more.
Conceive my posture; in one hand I smother
Thy precious scraps, my night-cap in the other;
One eye adverse beholds a rotten chink,
My left orb squints upon a jug of drink;
Ev'n now a dog my loaded pockets maul'd;
Gods! how I shrunk, I trembled, and I bawl'd—
Moses came in as rough as any bear;
I thrust your precious paper G— knows where;
I blush'd my crime—and now I date this scrawl
From the black cov'ring of a garret wall;
On broken chair I hang my doleful harp,
And the wind strikes the string with breezes sharp!
Oh! cou'dst thou see me now with icy nose,
Dripping with dew, and crimson as the rose,
My tatter'd petticoat around my head,
Mice my companions, and the floor my bed,
My head-dress damag'd with unusual flaws,
And my red tresses interwove with straws.
Yes, gen'rous youth, you'd fetch the cheering cake,
And pawn your only breeches for my sake;
The racy rum would raise my soul to joy,
And make me lovelier for my charming boy.

285

Yet let me suffer all that I can feel,
If thou canst 'scape the gamester's goary steel;
This scrawl shall tell your feats when I am dead,
And still alive perplex thy anxious head;
Perhaps some bard, by tender feelings mov'd,
May tell that once you liv'd, and once I lov'd.

A kind of Vauxhall near Dublin.

A huge cart in the form of an artillery waggon, led by the police officers through the streets, for the purpose of carrying the beggars found there to the house of correction.

Sir Boyle Roach.