University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The Harp of Erin

Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes

collapse sectionI. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 1. 
 2. 
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse sectionII. 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
AN ELEGY ON A PROVERB-MONGER.
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  


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.”
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.”
“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.

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.”
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.
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.”
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.”

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.”
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.’
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.”
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.”