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

Here lieth Hercules the Second,
A penman fine by critics reckon'd;
With back so huge, and brawny neck on't,
And shrewdish head,
Which oft to smoking hotpot beckon'd:
John Baynham's dead.

Woes me! no more shall younkers crowd
About thy hearth, and gabble loud;
Where thou, in magistracy proud,
Nought humbly said:
Alas! we never thought thee good
Till thou wast dead.

Though, by my soul! still sober, mellow,
I ken'd thee aye a special fellow,
Catches or psalm-staves prompt to bellow,
O pious breed!
I ween thou'rt fixt 'tween heav'n and hell: oh!
Our comfort's dead.

207

But for that plaguy profligate,
We early might enjoy and late
The knowledge of thy teeming pate
From board to bed:
But now thour't 'neath a puny slate;
Droll Johnny's dead.

Full many a hard bout hast thou weather'd:
By merry Bob severely tether'd;
More sadly than if tarr'd and feather'd,
Like bull-dog led:
Now all my tools are fairly gather'd;
Blythe Baynham's dead.

Heav'n lend thy soul its surest port,
And introduce thee to the court;
Revive again thy earthly sport,
And melt thy lead!
Alas! we mourn; for, by the mort!
John Baynham's dead.

No curate now can work thy throat,
And alter clean thy jocund note;
Charon has plump'd thee in his boat,
And run a-head:
My curse on death, the meddling sot!
Gay Johnny's dead.

208

With gills of noblest usquebaugh
Will we anoint thy epitaph;
While thou at the full bowl shalt laugh,
A precious meed:
At last thou liest in harbour safe;
Sage Johnny's dead.

News shall no more thy mornings muzzle,
Or schemes good spirit-punch to guzzle;
Wounds! thou art past this mortal bustle,
With manna fed;
Satan and thou hadst a long tussel;
At last thou'rt dead.

May blessings light upon thy gloom,
And geese grow fat upon thy tomb!
While no rash scribbler's impious thumb
Shall maul thy head;
But greet thee soft ‘in kingdom come,’
Though thou art dead.

POSTSCRIPT.

After inditing these sad stories,
I hap'd to hear some brother tories

209

Ranting and roaring loud at Lory's,
Not quite well bred;
I enter'd, and exclaim'd, ‘Ye glories,
John Baynham's dead.’

Scarce had I spoke, when 'neath the table
Something sigh'd out most lamentable:
Anon, to make my song a fable,
Starts out brave John;
Sitting, by Jove above! most stable
On wicked throne.

They press'd my sitting: marv'lous dull,
I gap'd at Banquo like a fool,
And cried ‘Good sirs, the table's full,
And there's a spirit,’
‘Come reach,’ quoth sprite, ‘an easy stool:’
And lent a wherret.

‘You rogue,’ said he, ‘how dare you write
Such stuff on me, as dead outright;

210

I think, by this good candle-light,
You've earn'd a drubbing.’
‘Pho! peace,’ said I, ‘I'll blot it quite;
Aye, by St. Dobbin.’

Witness therefore, by my small finger,
John chooses still on earth to linger,
As penman, poet, toper, singer,
In trade full thriving;
Know then, old bellman, barber, tinker,
John Baynham's living.

This man was the parish-clerk of Killeigh, and the merry friend and sociable companion of Dermody.

Lory was another of his associates. He kept a public-house; where the tradesmen of the village assembled, with the parish-clerk John Baynham, and Dermody as their oracle.