The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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AN ELEGY ON
A PROVERB-MONGER. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
290
AN ELEGY ON A PROVERB-MONGER.
Friends, cease your doleful cries and
mourning,
Though Hodges' soul is burnt, or burning,
“Tis a long lane that has no turning,”
“And fire wastes tow,”
“There's sweet as well as sour in churning,”
And “joy ends woe.”
Though Hodges' soul is burnt, or burning,
“Tis a long lane that has no turning,”
“And fire wastes tow,”
“There's sweet as well as sour in churning,”
And “joy ends woe.”
At most, though death should load his bier,
And Satan long his soul should tear,
What can they do?—so de'el may care,
They cannot form
I ween, “a silk purse of sow's ear,
“Or beer of barm.”
And Satan long his soul should tear,
What can they do?—so de'el may care,
They cannot form
I ween, “a silk purse of sow's ear,
“Or beer of barm.”
“As sure as two and two make four,”
They'll let his soul in quiet snore,
And lay him as dead on the floor,
“As David's sow,”
“A soft word sootheth wrath,” therefore,
Don't look below.
They'll let his soul in quiet snore,
And lay him as dead on the floor,
“As David's sow,”
“A soft word sootheth wrath,” therefore,
Don't look below.
291
What, though some time in hell he stay,
“Sour vinegar must make sweet whey:”
Rome was not finish'd in a day;
Be of my mind,
Your ditty sad and songs delay,
For “words are wind.”
“Sour vinegar must make sweet whey:”
Rome was not finish'd in a day;
Be of my mind,
Your ditty sad and songs delay,
For “words are wind.”
Each methodist, or stupid ass,
Will tell you, Sirs, that “flesh is grass;”
And it will also come to pass,
“That grass will fire;”
The ember lies just where it was,
The smoke mounts higher.
Will tell you, Sirs, that “flesh is grass;”
And it will also come to pass,
“That grass will fire;”
The ember lies just where it was,
The smoke mounts higher.
So, let the good folks do their will,
The sexton will e'en take his fill,
It brings more “grist unto his mill,”
And “drains the bog;”
Heav'n rest him, they may make him still,
“A hog, or dog.”
The sexton will e'en take his fill,
It brings more “grist unto his mill,”
And “drains the bog;”
Heav'n rest him, they may make him still,
“A hog, or dog.”
For, being “old dog” as I may say,
At every wicked gambol gay,
“When cat is out, the mice will play,”
And mock old Nick,
He'll sport, if fortune, in this way,
Don't shew “dog's trick.”
At every wicked gambol gay,
“When cat is out, the mice will play,”
And mock old Nick,
He'll sport, if fortune, in this way,
Don't shew “dog's trick.”
292
Then, “sure's a gun” he'll find to's cost,
“He reckon'd on without his host,”
And “cock-a-hoop” not mind what's lost,
“Till pay-day come,”
When he must desolate the coast
“Without beat o' drum.”
“He reckon'd on without his host,”
And “cock-a-hoop” not mind what's lost,
“Till pay-day come,”
When he must desolate the coast
“Without beat o' drum.”
If he don't chance with saws, to tether
Satan's two ears, like “bird of a feather,”
He must go without “why or whether,”
To “fill the oven,”
Kick'd out, with all his goods together,
By foot “so cloven.’
Satan's two ears, like “bird of a feather,”
He must go without “why or whether,”
To “fill the oven,”
Kick'd out, with all his goods together,
By foot “so cloven.’
I warrant, though the queer rogue tickles
His highness' taste, with flatt'ring pickles,
And ere a month, or some short week, lies,
“Claim cater cousin,
And be as great with Master Nichol's,
As “six to the dozen.”
His highness' taste, with flatt'ring pickles,
And ere a month, or some short week, lies,
“Claim cater cousin,
And be as great with Master Nichol's,
As “six to the dozen.”
Then cease, he's snug enough “in port,”
Prince serjeant of th' infernal court,
Following his own congenial sport,
As is the fashion,
And proverbs mouthing of each sort,
'Twas “his vocation.”
Prince serjeant of th' infernal court,
Following his own congenial sport,
As is the fashion,
And proverbs mouthing of each sort,
'Twas “his vocation.”
| The Harp of Erin | |