The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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A LAMENTABLE
ELEGY ON NICHOLAS,
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
213
A LAMENTABLE ELEGY ON NICHOLAS,
THE KILLEIGH TAYLOR.
Thy namesake
saw thy worth at last;
And took thee, faith, as a dead cast:
Thy revels and thy routs are past,
Ill-fated Nichol;
Auld don thy carcase threw with haste
Into his pickle.
And took thee, faith, as a dead cast:
Thy revels and thy routs are past,
Ill-fated Nichol;
Auld don thy carcase threw with haste
Into his pickle.
Now you may deck the prince of soot
With goodly clothes from head to foot,
I ween he wants a new recruit;
For since his fall
He's got no tolerable suit,
But an old pall.
With goodly clothes from head to foot,
I ween he wants a new recruit;
For since his fall
He's got no tolerable suit,
But an old pall.
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Much good may this new custom do thee!
May the coquettes of lowland woo thee,
And am'rous scratch thy cheeks so ruddy
With tooth and nail;
And when thou enter'st on thy study,
Bid thee all-hail!
May the coquettes of lowland woo thee,
And am'rous scratch thy cheeks so ruddy
With tooth and nail;
And when thou enter'st on thy study,
Bid thee all-hail!
Cæsar may want thy aid, sir, there;
Or Alexander, the great bear,
Pawn his lank knapsack in despair,
To get thee credit:
For authors say, queer clothes they wear,
As you may read it.
Or Alexander, the great bear,
Pawn his lank knapsack in despair,
To get thee credit:
For authors say, queer clothes they wear,
As you may read it.
We'll give thee joy of thy free trade.
May'st thou by Satan be well paid:
And never be by duns dismay'd;
Save now and then,
By some fair brimstone-blooded jade!—
John says, ‘Amen.’
May'st thou by Satan be well paid:
And never be by duns dismay'd;
Save now and then,
By some fair brimstone-blooded jade!—
John says, ‘Amen.’
What pompous words thy tongue adorn'd!
For monosyllables were scorn'd.
Full many a husband hast thou horn'd;
For which sweet sport,
Forefend you be not now suborn'd
In Pluto's court!
For monosyllables were scorn'd.
Full many a husband hast thou horn'd;
For which sweet sport,
Forefend you be not now suborn'd
In Pluto's court!
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At Andrew's shall thy praise remain,
While ale is made of malt and grain,
While Johnnie trembles at the dean:
Ev'n, Nic, so long
Shall bards thy hapless fate complain
In lofty song.
While ale is made of malt and grain,
While Johnnie trembles at the dean:
Ev'n, Nic, so long
Shall bards thy hapless fate complain
In lofty song.
What though the Killeigh knell be broke?
Kind memory shall thy name invoke,
And every jovial heart of oak
Inscribe thy stone
With epitaphs, at whose each stroke
The De'il wou'd groan.
Kind memory shall thy name invoke,
And every jovial heart of oak
Inscribe thy stone
With epitaphs, at whose each stroke
The De'il wou'd groan.
Fu' long shall Marks thy merit tell,
And Hugh recount thy gambols well:
For in sly pranks thou bor'st the bell,
And wouldst succeed;
Whilst Gragueall cries, in sad farewell,
‘Nick Surlock's dead.’
And Hugh recount thy gambols well:
For in sly pranks thou bor'st the bell,
And wouldst succeed;
Whilst Gragueall cries, in sad farewell,
‘Nick Surlock's dead.’
O matchless taylor, whose bra
clothes
Would swathe so fine the country beaus!
Must death thus take thee by the nose,
And pinch it red;
While boys resound, in tuneful woes,
‘Our taylor's dead?’
Would swathe so fine the country beaus!
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And pinch it red;
While boys resound, in tuneful woes,
‘Our taylor's dead?’
When the old surly haughre
came,
Why didst thou not defend thy fame;
His dog's-ears with thy scissars maim,
Or hurl thy goose?
Ah, no! poor wight, thou went'st quite tame
Into his noose.
Why didst thou not defend thy fame;
His dog's-ears with thy scissars maim,
Or hurl thy goose?
Ah, no! poor wight, thou went'st quite tame
Into his noose.
‘Done-over taylor, art thou now:
A cold stone on thy weam below,
Knock'd by thy rude carniv'rous foe
Upon the head;
Ah! soon shall ill-made garments shew,
Nice Nick is dead.
A cold stone on thy weam below,
Knock'd by thy rude carniv'rous foe
Upon the head;
Ah! soon shall ill-made garments shew,
Nice Nick is dead.
| The Harp of Erin | |