 | The Harp of Erin |  |
MY OWN ELEGY.
Gude faith! with all thy roguish
trick,
Thy Pegasus has got a kick;
Flat as a tomb-stone, dumb as stick,
Thou liest at last:
God send, thou gang'st not to old Nick
For frolics past.
Thy Pegasus has got a kick;
Flat as a tomb-stone, dumb as stick,
Thou liest at last:
God send, thou gang'st not to old Nick
For frolics past.
I do remember thee right well:
Thou didst in witty pranks excel,
Can all thy deeds of sly note tell,
Thou great verse-fighter;
But ah! auld Death has borne the bell,
And bit the biter.
Thou didst in witty pranks excel,
222
Thou great verse-fighter;
But ah! auld Death has borne the bell,
And bit the biter.
Right glum
is all thy rhyming glee;
Struck mute, who wont to be so free:
Yet, yet shall I, on bended knee
(Faithfu' Achates )
Drink to thy amorous memory;
Fine off'ring that is.
Struck mute, who wont to be so free:
Yet, yet shall I, on bended knee
(Faithfu' Achates )
Drink to thy amorous memory;
Fine off'ring that is.
For thou didst long to taste the bowl:
And if from limbo-logwood whole,
I ken, thy jovial fluttering soul
Will snuff the vapours,
Gleam pure good humour o'er the whole,
And light the tapers.
And if from limbo-logwood whole,
I ken, thy jovial fluttering soul
Will snuff the vapours,
Gleam pure good humour o'er the whole,
And light the tapers.
‘Bathe the delighted sprite
’ in ale,
Lie ‘wedg'd in fiery’ mugs, exhale
The quintessence of pipes, and rail
At good old sages;
Flouting the de'il and his long tail
In smoky pages.
Lie ‘wedg'd in fiery’ mugs, exhale
The quintessence of pipes, and rail
At good old sages;
Flouting the de'il and his long tail
In smoky pages.
223
When landlady, with burly mien,
Bids purses gleam with twinklers sheen,
'Tis ‘nuncle pays for thee,’ I ween;
Gold grow'th not in heaven:
Yet, by the laws, we'll lug thee in
For reck'ning even.
Bids purses gleam with twinklers sheen,
'Tis ‘nuncle pays for thee,’ I ween;
Gold grow'th not in heaven:
Yet, by the laws, we'll lug thee in
For reck'ning even.
Well, blessings on thy shade so laurel'd!
'Mid all thy high words thou ne'er quarrel'd;
Laugh'd loud, and leer'd, when malice snarl'd,
A smiling wizard:
And when renown'd good beer was barrel'd
Grinn'd in thy gizzard.
'Mid all thy high words thou ne'er quarrel'd;
Laugh'd loud, and leer'd, when malice snarl'd,
A smiling wizard:
And when renown'd good beer was barrel'd
Grinn'd in thy gizzard.
No thanks to those who long'd to pelt or
Abuse thy poor muse, helter-skelter;
Send thee to solitude for shelter,
To grief and moping,
Her dim lyre (cause enough to melt her)
In darkness groping.
Abuse thy poor muse, helter-skelter;
Send thee to solitude for shelter,
To grief and moping,
Her dim lyre (cause enough to melt her)
In darkness groping.
Yes: all must grant thee too a smack
Of genius, and of warmth. Alack!
Genius and warmth are gone apack
To land unknown;
They'll never come, I fear me, back,
To make us groan.
Of genius, and of warmth. Alack!
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To land unknown;
They'll never come, I fear me, back,
To make us groan.
The merry catch shall greet thy sprite:
And in the dead of list'ning night
We'll drone sincere at thy ill plight,
And sprinkle strong dews:
The hop shall on thy tomb rise light,
Nor yield us wrong juice.
And in the dead of list'ning night
We'll drone sincere at thy ill plight,
And sprinkle strong dews:
The hop shall on thy tomb rise light,
Nor yield us wrong juice.
Tobacco tubes, like trumps inverted,
Shall deck thy grave, and smoke thick-darted
Nourish the flow'rs around thee started
With od'rous aid:
Then, mon, be not this once faint-hearted;
Thy fortune's made.
Shall deck thy grave, and smoke thick-darted
Nourish the flow'rs around thee started
With od'rous aid:
Then, mon, be not this once faint-hearted;
Thy fortune's made.
At judgment-day, when strong-lung'd
cherub
Shall pipe all hands from silence here up,
He'll know thee, Tom, to be a queer cub,
And give thee quarters;
Wouns! what a sight, to see thy knee rub
'Gainst the saints and martyrs?
Shall pipe all hands from silence here up,
He'll know thee, Tom, to be a queer cub,
And give thee quarters;
Wouns! what a sight, to see thy knee rub
'Gainst the saints and martyrs?
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D'ye now remember, youth, the time
Thou'st rattled off sweet chinking rhime,
Till, rapt in doggerel sublime,
Thou staid'st all night out.
While Mumpus rang'd from clime to clime,
Raising a right rout?
Thou'st rattled off sweet chinking rhime,
Till, rapt in doggerel sublime,
Thou staid'st all night out.
While Mumpus rang'd from clime to clime,
Raising a right rout?
Peace to thy manes, lad of wax!
Free from all venomous attacks,
Thou liest in harbour snug: what lacks
Thy heart on high?
Would that thy friends here could go snacks,
And mount the sky!
Free from all venomous attacks,
Thou liest in harbour snug: what lacks
Thy heart on high?
Would that thy friends here could go snacks,
And mount the sky!
| The Harp of Erin | |