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Rhapsodies

By W. H. Ireland

Ireland, W. H. (1777-1835)

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DEDICATED, By Permission, TO LADY HUNLOKE, OF WINGERWORTH, DERBYSHIRE.

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EPIGRAM On a gentleman in fear of bailiffs.

LINES Under the statue of Love, by Voltaire.

POOR POLLY, THE MAD GIRL.

SOLILOQUY OF A GARRETEER.

HYMN TO THE DEITY.

LOVE AND PRUDENCE.

EPIGRAM On a known fact.

THE LITTLE RED WOMAN,

SONG—POOR JANE.

LINES By a Poet, to the object of his idolatry.

THE BASTARD's COMPLAINT.

REPLY TO THE BASTARD's COMPLAINT.

ODE TO CHARITY.

LINES To the departed Spirit of a Parent.

THE WHITE LADY ;

EPIGRAM On a set of bell ringers.

LINES On hearing a person maintain that Man might have been formed less vicious.

EPITAPH, Written at the request of a friend, on his much-lamented wife.

LINES On a happy union.

THE ABBEY PORCH, AND MELANCHOLY MAN'S CONTEMPLATION.

EPIGRAM On a country judge.

BACCHANALIAN:

THE MISTRESS's QUESTION.

THE LOVER's REPLY.

ON THE DEATH OF A FEMALE FRIEND,

ON THE OAK IN PENSHURST PARK,

WILLY, THE FORSAKEN SWAIN.

THE QUESTION RESOLVED.

LINES From Age to Youth.

CUPID AND THE LOVE-SICK MAID.

EMPLOYMENT FOR A MISTRESS AND A WIFE.

FROM THE FRENCH.

CRAZY TOM, THE BEDLAMITE.

LINES Addressed to a young couple on the celebration of their nuptials.

TO AN ABSENT MISTRESS.

A LOVER's KISS.

ADVICE OF FRIENDSHIP.

THE LOVER's REPLY.

PARODY, In answer to the former.

LINES On following a lady with a beautiful turned ancle.

LINES On hearing a young Lady sing the celebrated mad song composed by Purcell.

BALLAD IMITATED.

LINES To a Mistress, who fled every worldly consideration for him she loved.

FROM THE FRENCH OF VOLTAIRE.

ANSWER, In 1802

A BALLAD, OF EDWARD AND ELGIVA, The Nun of St. Agatha.

LINES Addressed to the admirers of aerial excursions;

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BACCHANALIAN:

IN VINO VERITAS.

What is life? a fickle ocean;
What is joy? a transient ray;
What is love? a youthful notion;
Wine alone drives care away.
Why then murder time by thinking?
Fill my goblet, fill with wine;
Life affords no joy but drinking,
That alone makes man divine.

What's the bigot warm'd by praying?
What's the advent'rous seaman's gain?
What's the soldier's zeal? a saying;
Wine can only fire the brain.
To all ills I bid defiance,
And, though mortal, prove divine,
With the gods I claim alliance;
They quaff nectar, I drink wine.