University of Virginia Library

My dare fellow, it's well for yourself, d'ye see,
That I larnt to write in the school of Tralee;
If I had not, the divil a bit could I tell,
A sprig of the Geohegans—Phalim was well:—
My master and I are at Bath, my frind Bryan,
We have been here a month, and are lodg'd at the Lion:
He's as slim as an eel-skin, though my foster-brother,
For his Honour, you know, got his milk from my mother:
I wonders myself how the women can whelp 'em;
He's a Lord to be sure, but such Lords—Oh! Lord help 'em.
When I reach'd Holyhead, to go cliver and clean,
I took an outside in the Chister machine:
About three in the morning a spalpeen came to me,
Shook my shoulders, and bawl'd—zounds, I thought he'd undo me!—
‘Don't you go wid the coach, Mister Pat? if you do,
‘You had best tumble out, for they won't wait for you.’—
Och I fir'd with rage, when I heard the fool ask it,
What want I wid the coach, 'sblood, who go in the basket?
You may tell Kathleen Fagan we niver shall deal,
She's like Mullingar heifers gra—beef to the heel!
Besides Father Shay knows she's near double my age,
And is all a one side—like the Kilkinny stage!
If she brags how I kiss'd her in Terry Fay's fold,
You may say that's a secret, and shou'dn't be told.
I heard Juggy your neighbour one day went and died,
You'll have now no disputes 'bout her dirty backside:
You may do as you plase with your pigs and your tree,
Och that strap had a tongue that would cut one—in three;
Now we talk of brute baists—is that cow going dry,
Which you bought of Mahony who lives near—Athy?
I have sane the King's-Bath—it's a Loch, my dear joy!
I took Pat too, who's grown a great lump of a boy:
Do you know when I come there, they offer'd me water!
To be sure they were civil—a man and his daughter:—
Is it water you mane, frind? says I—what could ail him?
No, honey, your wine's good enough for poor Phalim!
When I wint to Rourke's lodgings, who once could so whack hard,
A vokeen bid me walk up three pair of stairs back'ard!
Pullaloo, do axe Luke, who liv'd here, if he knew it,
Bad luck to their manners—myself wou'dn't do it.
We've a club call'd the Welters—we met t'other night,
Amid porter and punch, and debate and delight:
All tight Irish Lads—we scarce knew where to stow 'em,
Now I'll tell you their names, though perhaps you won't know 'em:—
Mullachy, who scor'd Thady Gallagher's scull,
And Darby Mackloughlin, who frighten'd the bull,
O'Callaghan, Murphy and Michael O'Scuddery,
With Owen O'Fargus and Dermot Bulruddery;
Larry Kavanagh came too, and Dennis Bradogue,
Who was born next the Harp in Glassmockinyogue:
Macdonough and O'Donoghoe, and big Brennan,
With Shamus O'Lyn, and the bold Major Lennan:
There was Festus Mullowney—Macarty and Moony,
Mac Swinney and Broughallen—Ryan and Cooney!
Lennard Rafferty's brother, who made my first brogues,
And Cockran and Quiny—both Munster-cotch'd rogues:
We had O'Gamahoe—Maurice Shahy and Carrol,
But for want of a chair the last sat on a barrel;
Flaharty and Donovan,—Balfe and O'Hara,
With Casey and Cassidy,—Mulhawn and Mara:
We had Logan O'Fag in the room, for he curst in it,
He'd bate England's best man till he made him the worst in it.
We'd a rap from Cork town there—Cornelius O'Dogherty,
And Broderick Blayney, and Terence and Fogarty:
There was Launsterum Poney and Spoleen O'Cuff,
Who you know always goes—t'other side of enough!
And Murdock Macmanus—Shane Coffy, and Flannagen,
Who got leather'd so hard, he'll ne'er be his own man again.
By my soul these are lads—About nine Peter Bell come in,
Och the Divil unroof ev'ry house we're not welcome in.
Magra your old frind is as stiff as dry starch,
That same Dith cuts us down like a shamrock in March:
But we're all mortal men, and as brittle as glass,
Here to-day, and gone yesterday—just like mown grass.—
Fait! myself's been unwell, who you know was so frisky,
All my spirits are fled now I cannot get whisky:
Half my memory's gone—by my troth it's e'en so,
I remember what's due—but forgets what I owe!
Do you know two Canaries last Tuesday night robb'd me,
One taif held my arms, while the other taif fobb'd me:
To be sure, my dear fellows, says I, from mere fun,
Do pray take it all—for by Chreest I have none.
Tim Kilty and I, the first time in our lives,
Have been to a horse-race—we both took our wives:
We went on Shank's mare—we were all in undress,
Och honey we got there in no time and less:
There Tim back'd a fine, tall, strong gelding—one Botheram,
A Yorkshire-bred hunter, they foal'd him at Rotheram;
He laid sivin thirteens, but some cullinogue crost it,
I can't tell how it was, but I know Kilty lost it:
Though Tim thought he'd won, and kept jumping and crying,
As the horses run over the sod, just like flying!
“Och Botheram for ever—look there—I adore him,
“See, see, how he drives all the others before him.”
But the mob laugh'd at Tim, and one prig came to snub him,
By the Holy, myself had a great mind to drub him.
May Perdition resave me, and choak me with vapours,
But they've put this affair now in all their news-papers:
Psha, tunder a nouns, at a jontleman's blunder,
Must Ireland, England, and Middlesex, wonder?
I have been too at Bristol, to see Duffy Flood,
Where the streets are all lanes, and the river's all mud;
The Channel comes up twice a day—oh! it graves 'em,
But disliking their selfishness, pukes as he laves 'em.
There was Katty O'Snatch, Connel Sullivan's sister,
Who you know run away, when her family mist her.
Like a Waterford marchant I found Duffy too,
He was knee-deep in bustle—with nothing to do!
By the piper of Loughlin, I've been to a ball,
I'd a ticket free—gratis—for nothing at all.
You know Travaire the Cobler—in Dublin so idle,
Och the De'el take him hunting without any bridle:
He brought away fifty good shoes in a sack,
But for every pair he gave single ones back,
And told all his frinds as he took the hoofs round,
That he'd fail'd, and could pay but—tin shillings per pound!