Mac-Dermot or the Irish Fortune-Hunter. A poem. In Six Canto's. By the Author of the Art of Dress [i.e. J. D. Breval] |
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| I. |
| II. |
Canto II.
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| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Mac-Dermot |  |
9
Canto II.
Twice now the circling Months their Course had run,
And ev'ry Sign had twice receiv'd the Sun,
Since the glad Youth first thank'd his gentler Fate,
And wore the Badges of his servile State;
Yet Happy as he was, Gay, Spruce, and Clean,
He sometimes had his Intervals of Spleen;
For ah! what mortal State is free from Woe!
And Spleen torments the Footman as the Beau.
And ev'ry Sign had twice receiv'd the Sun,
Since the glad Youth first thank'd his gentler Fate,
And wore the Badges of his servile State;
Yet Happy as he was, Gay, Spruce, and Clean,
He sometimes had his Intervals of Spleen;
For ah! what mortal State is free from Woe!
And Spleen torments the Footman as the Beau.
The Noble Peer to Choler was inclin'd,
Nor was his Beauteous Spouse of gentler Kind;
Great People have their Plagues, and so had they,
My Lord was dunn'd, my Lady lost at play;
Then ev'ry Thing displeas'd th'Illustrious Pair,
Domestick War, and Clamour fill'd the Air,
Bottles were flung, and Glasses went to rack,
And the dread Cane bruis'd many a sturdy Back.
Nor was his Beauteous Spouse of gentler Kind;
10
My Lord was dunn'd, my Lady lost at play;
Then ev'ry Thing displeas'd th'Illustrious Pair,
Domestick War, and Clamour fill'd the Air,
Bottles were flung, and Glasses went to rack,
And the dread Cane bruis'd many a sturdy Back.
This gall'd the Youth, who sometimes bore a Part
In his Friends Woes, and felt his Shoulders smart,
Who read upon his Skin of Silver hue
His frequent Suff'rings writ in Black and Blue.
And am I, am I, thus deceiv'd, he cry'd,
Are these, ye Gods, the sad Rewards of Pride?
Far better that my Brogues I still had worn,
Than wearing Shoes have had such cause to mourn.
In his Friends Woes, and felt his Shoulders smart,
Who read upon his Skin of Silver hue
His frequent Suff'rings writ in Black and Blue.
And am I, am I, thus deceiv'd, he cry'd,
Are these, ye Gods, the sad Rewards of Pride?
Far better that my Brogues I still had worn,
Than wearing Shoes have had such cause to mourn.
One Night as in his Bed he musing lay,
With Thoughts like these, oppress'd, and wish'd for Day,
He saw a Form, (or dream'd perhaps, he saw,)
Which struck his Soul with Terror and with Awe;
(But whether by the Moon's, or Taper's Light,
Uncertain Authors have not settled right;)
It seem'd, as tow'rds his truckle Bed it drew,
A Kindred Fantom, and a Shade he knew;
With a Grey length of Beard, and rudely clad
In a large Mantle of Hibernian Plad.
Mac summon'd Thrice his Courage to his Aid,
And Thrice beneath his Rug he sunk dismay'd;
At last with Boldness on his Arm reclin'd,
The Sprite he challeng'd, and compos'd his Mind:
When thus the Ghost;—dejected Youth, in me
(Nor hast thou sure forgot) thy Grandsire see;
Thy Grandsire, Foygar, once of great Renown,
On Munster's Plains a memorable Clown,
Like whom was none when young; so strong, so bold,
Or fam'd for Wisdom, and for Wealth when old.
Rais'd from the silent Grave to ease thy Pain,
With Pluto's Leave I visit Earth again;
For mortal Groans are not unheard below,
And Shades themselves are touch'd with human Woe.
With Thoughts like these, oppress'd, and wish'd for Day,
11
Which struck his Soul with Terror and with Awe;
(But whether by the Moon's, or Taper's Light,
Uncertain Authors have not settled right;)
It seem'd, as tow'rds his truckle Bed it drew,
A Kindred Fantom, and a Shade he knew;
With a Grey length of Beard, and rudely clad
In a large Mantle of Hibernian Plad.
Mac summon'd Thrice his Courage to his Aid,
And Thrice beneath his Rug he sunk dismay'd;
At last with Boldness on his Arm reclin'd,
The Sprite he challeng'd, and compos'd his Mind:
When thus the Ghost;—dejected Youth, in me
(Nor hast thou sure forgot) thy Grandsire see;
Thy Grandsire, Foygar, once of great Renown,
On Munster's Plains a memorable Clown,
Like whom was none when young; so strong, so bold,
Or fam'd for Wisdom, and for Wealth when old.
12
With Pluto's Leave I visit Earth again;
For mortal Groans are not unheard below,
And Shades themselves are touch'd with human Woe.
Rashly, vain Youth, too rashly didst thou fly
Thy Father's Hutt, and with thy Pride comply,
To wear a tawdry Coat, and strut in Lace;
The first ambitious Peasant of thy Race.
Had Freedom then with thee such little Weight,
That thou shouldst sell her at so cheap a Rate?
On great Mens Offals chusing to be fed,
When thou couldst eat thy own Potatoe Bread.
But since what's pass'd can be recall'd no more,
Pack up thy Awls, and fly th'Hibernian Shore;
St. George's Channel crost, my Grandson dear,
Thy Way-ward Course to London City steer;
For there ('tis written-in the Book of Fate)
A Time will come when thou shalt live in State,
Th'untasted Sweets of luscious Plenty know,
And quite forget all Cause of former Woe;
I would say more, but Cocks begin to crow.
Thy Father's Hutt, and with thy Pride comply,
To wear a tawdry Coat, and strut in Lace;
The first ambitious Peasant of thy Race.
Had Freedom then with thee such little Weight,
That thou shouldst sell her at so cheap a Rate?
On great Mens Offals chusing to be fed,
When thou couldst eat thy own Potatoe Bread.
But since what's pass'd can be recall'd no more,
Pack up thy Awls, and fly th'Hibernian Shore;
St. George's Channel crost, my Grandson dear,
Thy Way-ward Course to London City steer;
13
A Time will come when thou shalt live in State,
Th'untasted Sweets of luscious Plenty know,
And quite forget all Cause of former Woe;
I would say more, but Cocks begin to crow.
These Words pronounc'd, th'unbody'd Vision left
The sweating Hind, of Sense and Speech bereft;
He sate agast, and upright stood his Hair,
His haggard Eyes persu'd the fleeting Air;
So look'd the Chief who freed ungrateful Rome,
When Cæsar's Spirit had foretold his Doom;
And such have I beheld the Princely Dane,
When Hamlet's Ghost sinks down in Drury-Lane.
The sweating Hind, of Sense and Speech bereft;
He sate agast, and upright stood his Hair,
His haggard Eyes persu'd the fleeting Air;
So look'd the Chief who freed ungrateful Rome,
When Cæsar's Spirit had foretold his Doom;
And such have I beheld the Princely Dane,
When Hamlet's Ghost sinks down in Drury-Lane.
And art thou gone? at last Mac-Dermot cry'd,
And to thy Grandson is one Hug deny'd?
The Boyne shall sooner mingle with the Tweed,
And Toads and Snakes in Irish Fens shall breed;
Sooner shall Teagues o'er Bogs forget their Way,
And cease to Honour good St. Patrick's Day,
Than from this Mind, O! venerable Shade,
Th'Impression be eras'd thy Words have made.
And to thy Grandson is one Hug deny'd?
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And Toads and Snakes in Irish Fens shall breed;
Sooner shall Teagues o'er Bogs forget their Way,
And cease to Honour good St. Patrick's Day,
Than from this Mind, O! venerable Shade,
Th'Impression be eras'd thy Words have made.
Well, 'tis resolv'd my Country I'll forsake,
And to Lud's famous Town a Ramble take;
'Tis nothing strange for Heroes far to roam,
And seek new Mansions, when distress'd at home;
For in past Ages, if we credit Fame,
Flying from hence, great Fergus did the same;
Fergus, from whom, as antient Bards have sung,
Of Scottish Kings the long Succession sprung:
He said, and thrice he shook himself, then rose
Big with his Fate, and huddled on his Clothes;
Then stealing to'ards the Window from his Nest,
Look'd at the Clouds, and saw the Wind was West;
He saw, and wish'd he now was under Sail,
E'er Æolus recall'd the friendly Gale,
And soon determin'd while it yet was Night,
To leave the hated Roof, and take his flight.
And to Lud's famous Town a Ramble take;
'Tis nothing strange for Heroes far to roam,
And seek new Mansions, when distress'd at home;
For in past Ages, if we credit Fame,
Flying from hence, great Fergus did the same;
Fergus, from whom, as antient Bards have sung,
Of Scottish Kings the long Succession sprung:
He said, and thrice he shook himself, then rose
Big with his Fate, and huddled on his Clothes;
15
Look'd at the Clouds, and saw the Wind was West;
He saw, and wish'd he now was under Sail,
E'er Æolus recall'd the friendly Gale,
And soon determin'd while it yet was Night,
To leave the hated Roof, and take his flight.
Morpheus mean while throughout the Castle reigns,
And binds each mortal in his leaden Chains;
From the great Baron to the meanest Groom
No Creature stirs; and hush'd is all the Dome;
Th'Adventrous Youth who thought th'Occasion kind,
Stole his Lord's Clothes, and left his own behind,
Then made no Scruple slily to purloin,
Casters and Spoons, convertible to Coin:
In his small Wallet these he safely stow'd,
With some choice Fragments useful on the Road.
Then out he sally'd at the Postern Door,
And with due Speed made to'ards the distant Shoar;
Nor Bog nor Mountain could his Flight retard,
Fear was his Spur, St. Patrick was his Guard.
And binds each mortal in his leaden Chains;
From the great Baron to the meanest Groom
No Creature stirs; and hush'd is all the Dome;
Th'Adventrous Youth who thought th'Occasion kind,
Stole his Lord's Clothes, and left his own behind,
Then made no Scruple slily to purloin,
Casters and Spoons, convertible to Coin:
In his small Wallet these he safely stow'd,
With some choice Fragments useful on the Road.
16
And with due Speed made to'ards the distant Shoar;
Nor Bog nor Mountain could his Flight retard,
Fear was his Spur, St. Patrick was his Guard.
O Thou
who whilom didst from London ride
To that fam'd Town which Isca's Waves divide,
On thy proud Steed, inspir'd with sacred Rage,
In deathless Rhymes describing ev'ry Stage;
Thine be the Task, in the same lofty Strain,
To bring Mac-Dermot o'er St. George's Main,
To tell th'Adventures of his tedious Routè,
And how from Holy Head he trudg'd on foot;
My Muse his Wishes with Success to crown,
Concludes his Toil, and fixes him in Town.
To that fam'd Town which Isca's Waves divide,
On thy proud Steed, inspir'd with sacred Rage,
In deathless Rhymes describing ev'ry Stage;
Thine be the Task, in the same lofty Strain,
To bring Mac-Dermot o'er St. George's Main,
To tell th'Adventures of his tedious Routè,
And how from Holy Head he trudg'd on foot;
My Muse his Wishes with Success to crown,
Concludes his Toil, and fixes him in Town.
| Mac-Dermot | |