The Irish Hudibras, or Fingallian Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Irish Hudibras, or Fingallian Prince

Taken from the Sixth Book of Virgil's Aenaeids, and Adapted to the Present Times

Farewell, James

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THE Irish Hudibras.

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Nimium Vobis Romana Propago.
Virg.

THE Irish Hudibras.

O Hone! O Hone! And so the Bore
Weigh'd Anchor to Infernal Shore;
For on the Earth there was no space,
T'allow the Prince a Baiting-place.
The trembling Bogs shook with the weight,
The murm'ring Floods bewail'd his flight;
Until pursuing fatal doom,
He strook on Coast of Inche-Cume:

Inche-Colm in Lough Erin, the Passage to St. Patrick's Purgatory.

Where having scap'd another Rattle,
He bound his Fleet with Twists of Wattle:

Obsequious Gad

A With.

, that serves instead
Of Cables, Cords, Hemp, Flax, and Thread.
And Nees no readier way cou'd think on,
To tye their Noses

The Anchor was a Quern, or Milstone, ty'd with a Gad.

to the Grinston:
For Nees's Fleet in Ocean wavy,
Were like his Men, a scampering Navy.

Nees's Fleet.

That Navy which no Coast can match,
Built without charge of Deck or Hatch;
Where each whole chested Man of War,
Scorn'd the Adjuncts of Pitch or Tarr:
Nor did a Plank or Bolt appear,
Or Rudder had where-with to steer;
No Tackling, Rigging, Mast or Sail,
To take th'advantage of a Gale;
Nor Ballast had below the Hold,
But what was pumpt with wooden Bowl:

No Cannons, nor wide-mouth'd Granadoes,
Nees's Fire-balls were boil'd Pottados:
Pottados still did serve, instead
Of Peash and Bacon, Beef and Bread:

His Magazine.

'Twas all their stock; for they no more,
Or Ammunition had, or Store.

This was that famous Fleet which Nees,
Like Meddars form'd of the whole piece:
Meddar, which is a pretty Knack,
A deep round foursquare wooden Jack;
An ill-shap'd Trunk of carved Tree,
An uniform Deformity.
The Root their Stools, the Bark their Tables,
The Stock was Ship, and Boughs were Cables;
Digg'd up with Chissels undermining,
Such as Westphalians feed their Swine in:
A drowsie Fleet of sluggish Cots,

A Trunk of a Tree out hollow.

Proper to bear such active Sots.

And Nees was glad when he had got 'em
Each Tubb to sit on its own bottom.
No Bark, no Boat was to be found,

The Scotch had burnt them.

Shou'd Nees have giv'n a thousand pound;
Which is the cause old Story tells,
They were a Fleet of Cockle-shells,
Sent from the Lady of Lorett,
To waft him o're in spight of Fate.

The Dear-Joys rockt in Cot, like Cradle,
Some on an Oar, some on a Paddle,
Leapt to the shore a Crew of Swingers,
Ready almost to eat their Fingers,
For very hunger post away,
Tag-Rag and Long-Tail for his prey;
Some to the Bogs, some run a madding,
And some unto the Woods a gadding;

Some with the Flint and Steel assayl,
To fire the Funk upon his Nail;
Some Houses burn, some burn Tobac.
Some of their Deeds, some Vermin crack;
Some to the Ale-house run, and throng
To

Chanuska.

water Head with

Buye oge. To fetch Water in a wooden Can.

yellow Young;
And after long and tedious ranging,
By help of Mathematick Engine,
A Setting-pole the cunning Rogues
Brought from the Fleet to leap the Bogs:
Springs, happy Springs, adorn'd with Sallets,
Which Nature purpos'd for their Palats;

Three-leav'd-grass.

Shamrogs and Watergrass he shows,
Which was both Meat, and Drink, and Close.
But Nees, more Zealous than the rest,

A Church erected by St. Patrick, in Lough Erin, through which they descended into St Patrick's Purgatory. Annals of Ireland.

Was of St. Patrick's Church in quest;

Which, if you credit antient Story,
Is the high Road to Purgatory.

Scarce had he sneez'd, when he begun
To scrape Acquaintance with a Nun:
Shela, for that's the Name they give her,
For a close Bawd, and wicked Liver,
Thô some did call her

Sara.

Sau, some

Ann.

Aina,
Most for her Beauty call'd her

Ugly.

Graina.
So sly and exquisit a Witch she,
Nature nere form'd so true a Gypsie:
For she was skill'd in all their Wisdom,
Cou'd unto any Man read His Doom;
Or hang'd by Sea, or drown'd by Land
Cou'd do the business to your hand;
And by her skill in Palmestry,
Wou'd tell you what should never be:
In Peace or War, when Ruins threaten,
Guess by the Victor, who was beaten:

And tell by th'parting of the Fray,
Who Kept the Field, who ran away.

This Flibber-gib Nees did importune,
That he, forsooth, might know his Fortune;
Who for a Bribe to bring her Grist,
Cram'd a whole handful in her fist:

Lanedurne.

She willing to attend his Grace,
Mander'd not long, but in a space
Tuck't up her Drab, through Marshes slabby,
Both posting to St. Patrick's Abby.
Now enter they the Boggs, and go
Through golden Roofs of yellow Straw:
From Bog to Wood, each Shrub they pass,
Dropping an Ave, and a Mass.

Ave-Maria.

But when they had approach'd the Door;
Says Shela, Nees, Be sure, be sure,

Prayers.

Thou have thy Beads in readiness,
And all thy Roguery confess;
Prepare thy

Pater-Noster.

Padreen, and thy Ryme,
For we are come in Pudding-time.

With that to'th' Gate his Grace adventur'd,
Which Shela, without knocking, enter'd;
And though they were in Limbo pent,
Without a word of Complement,

Irish Cry.

They raise the Hub-bub-boo, and cry,
Saint Patrick, Patrick, my Dear Joy!
When strait the Abbess chang'd her hue:
And all her Carrets turn'd to blue;
Her Hair, like finer Hempen-thread,
Stood all an end upon her Head:
So Mad she grew, and so Uncivil,
You'd think her turn'd into a Devil.

But when the Spirit was more strong
Within the Carcas of the Nun;
She fell on Nees like Butter-Whore,
Because poor Nees could pray no more.
Dost thou leave off thy Prayers and Beading?
Culleen, the Devil take thy Breeding.
Ill chance upon't, hast thou no shame?
Go say thy Beads a Devils name.
Well, Nees, if thou wilt not give o're
Thy Irish Tricks. I'le say no more.
And so when she had once begun
To end her Speech, she held her Tongue.

The Dear Joys strait began to quake,
Stinking for, fear did Buttons make;

But Nees did pour out his Pray'rs
From the very bottom of his—

Nees's Prayer.

Dear Joy, St. Patrick, vil dou hear
Dee own Cheeld Nees make his Pray-ere,
Dat never did, or I'm a Teef,
So much before in all mee Leef.
Dear Joy, who sees our woful Case,
Will dou sit still upon dee Ars,
And see dese Dutch and English Rogues
Strip off our

Breeches.

Trouses, and our

Shoes.

Brogues:
Possess our

Cabbin, or Irish Hut.

Crates, and dy poor Cheeld Nees,
And

Bore.

Culleens flee, like flocks of Wild-gees.
De Devil take me, now I swear
(Dear Gossop) by mee own Mak-keer

Nees vill (if he no better speed)
Make hang upon himself indeed.
What though of

Mony.

Ready nere a plack,
Yet many a plugg of good Toback
It cost me to come to dis Port;
And not a Turd de better for't:
Ycome like fool, ygo vidout
My skeal, vid finger in my mout;
Since I have seen dy own sweet Face,
I know doul't never be so base.
Derefore God bless it, Oh!

Patrick.

Padeen.
Vill dou take a little for de Queen?
My Dear, my Joy, my

Dear Heart.

Cram-ma-cree,
I'll make much Prayer upon dee;
And all de rest

Lodge.

ycoshere here
It's now full teem to give Quar-teer.

And also dee, my prescious Nun,
Yknows what never is to come;
Grant dat I may but live at home,
And (fate) is Nees but ask his own;
To be my stay in my own Nation,
Without Exile or Transplantation:
To be restord without Reprisal,
Or Court of

Court of Claims.

Clamper to try Title;
Lest Innocence being question'd,
Poor Nees shou'd chance to be postpond;
Or come in Rere of Dutch Debenturers,
Or be kickt out by French Adventurers.
If we ben't mortgag'd for a Summ,
And there's for Nees in Ireland room;

Acres.

In peace to hold my few A-ceers,
And Images of my Fa-deers:

And had I but one Cow, I tell dee,
In all the World, vidout my Belly,
I'de give it fait, vid all my heart,
T'njoy my Land, or any part;
My

Butter-milk.

Banniclabber and Pottados,
Without these French and Dutch Granados.
And by my Gossops hand, I fate,
I vill an Abby Dedicate
To my Dear Joy, vidout no words,
As big as Monastry of

Town of Swords in Fingaul.

Swords;
And to dy name make

St. Patrick's Day, the 17th of March, the Patron Day of Ireland.

Holy-day,
When all de Monaghans shall play:
Ordain a Statute to be Drunk,
And burn Tobacco free as

Tinder.

Spunk;
And (fat shall never be forgot)
In Usquebah, St. Patrick's Pot;

To last for never in our Nation,
On pain of Excommunication:
And unto dee, my precious Whore,
A place to hang up dy Pic-ture.
Much Grace upon dee ugly fash,
Where ev'ry one shall say a Mass;
Where dy Mi-ra-cles shall be sung,
By very ting dat has no tongue.
Only I pray dee now, my Dear,
Let not dy Ars make a

Noise.

Clam-peer;
Lest vid a Fart dou blow it from me,
And put de great Moccage upon me.
Nor let de Vind dy Notes profane,
But sing dyself de sweet

Song.

Cro-naan.
And so at length he brought about.
An end of praying with his Mout.

This while the Nun to th'

Usquebagh.

Coge did fall,
And there she drank the Devil and all;
Spewing and pissing as she stood,
To throw him out in height of Flood:
The more she strove to thrust him out,
The more he firk't her Hide about:
So hard he prest, and did so toss her,
That she had hardly time to cross her;
Till in these words the Fiend at once
Did ope her hundred-folded Sconce:

Oh Nees! poor Nees! thô it's not untrue,
That thou hast many Gantlets run through
By Water; there are still on Land
Far greater Perils, by this hand.
Wars! Wars! ah, bloody Wars I find it;

But hang it (Brother) never mind it.
Thou wilt (but wish thou'dst never) come
To thy own Country, House, and Home.
The

The River runs through Dublin.

Liffy shall be chang'd to Blood,
Besmear'd With Gore, instead of Mud:
So shall the Brackney, and the Shanon,

Two Rivers.

Nor shall great Scomberg's Tents want Cannon.
Thy flying Hosts Dutch-Troops shall rack 'em,
With Thousand English Braves to back 'em:
Till thou disarm'd, and brought so poor,
Art forc'd to beg from Door to Door.
And all this mischief, on my Life,
Again through an Imperious Wife;
And foreign Priests, a Pox take

Them.

'ame,
For which poor Nees must bear the blame.

But since thou'rt custom'd to be beat;
Be'nt basely Cow'd for one Defeat;
Nor turn, like Coward, Tail upon't,
But march up bolder to the Front.
Humble the Whiggs in London-derry,
The Forlet Scot beyond the Ferry:
From Edinburrow cross the Tweed,
And make the Heart of Europe bleed;
As long as Fortune does not frown;
And Great Nassaw (who guards the Crown)
With Scomberg, let our Troops alone,
Nees may be sure the Day's his own.
But one thing more I must declare,
Thou little dreams of, in this War:
The first Relief that's hither blown,
Shall come from Brest, or Dunkirk-Town,

With an Armado, which shall bring
With them an Abdicated King;
Who to retrieve his sudden Fall,
In hopes of Winning, shall Lose all;
Three Kingdoms quit, to set up Mass,
And Cronicle himself an—
Shall Monsieur above Nees advance,
And Ireland Intail to France.

Braider a Skeal.

Pox on dy Tail (says Nees) I tro;
Vell vas dy vont for doing so;

Despair.

Spereen, and an ill Chaunce upon it,
I tought no better voud come on it;
Too vell I knew, by what's not past,
'Twould come unto dis pass at last.
But since no Balsom for this Wound
Is left for Nees above de ground,

One Courtesie I must demand,
Since here's de Passage to dat Land;
And here is Nees beg dy Par-doon,
Dat I choos dee for my Gar-soon;
Dat I may pass de black Va-teer,
Once more to see my old Fa-deer;

God.

Good rest his Shoul, and Body too,
Is ly vidin de ground below.
O Hone! fait many a time, I swear,
Vas carry it on dis Shoul-deer.
If dou believe me, fat I say,
My Bones yfeel it to dis day;
And fate, when he was after dee,
Vas give it charge to come to see:

And I meeself

Deulmore Iricism, Great Eye, great desire.

great Eye have still,
To make performsh upon his Will.
Now for de Son, and de Fa-deer,
Conduct me to de black Va-teer.
For dou can do't, for fait dou wou'd not
Be a right Nun, if dou understood not
De next and ready way to Hell,
You Women know dat way too vell:
For I would try, if dat dere be
In Hell for Nees a Vacancy;
Since Soldering vill do no grace,
To try to get an Evidaunsh-Place:
And I deserve dat favour sure,
As vell as Dermot o Con-noor.

If

Roger.

Rory, to his Nations praise,
Out-swore de Devil to his face;
If Teague and Shone Pollure cou'd Swear,
Each in his turn, for his Bro-deer;
Why shou'd not I set up a School,
As well as any other Fool?
For I can Swear with Bryan Hains,
O Farrell, or a Brace of Pains.
What should I talk of O Theseen,
O Sheil, or Eustace o Com-meen:
And fait, I tink, I am as good
A Man, as none of all dat Brood.

Thus said; the Abbess thus begun,
Nees, thou art thy own Father's Son;

Teague Mac Lany, his Grand-father a Butcher, yet descended from the Family of the Kings; whose Genealogy is as follows. Nees or Enees, Mac Anchees, Mac Cova, Mac Conigal, Mac Mureartagh, Mac Loughlin, Mac Rory, Mac Dermot, Mac Turlogh, Mac Tool, Mac Deul.

I knew thy Father well, that bore thee,
And thy own Son and Heir before thee:
Thy Father was a good Man, true;
And, faith, so was thy Mother too.
But hear a little what I say,
The Gate lies open night and day:
To go's, as plain as A, B, C;
But Back's all the Concavity.
The Way thou easily may'st find,
But thou'lt return when th'Devil's blind.

Ubboo! (says Nees) if dat be all,
I'll go, or it shall cost a fall:
It's de Deel's Luck, and if it prove
Worse dere dan it has done above:
For a long Journey he must strain
Too far, vho ne'er returns again.
Ne'er Venture, never Vin; vell, vell,
Shela, I am resolv'd for Hell.

Nay, Vench, it is decreed, I must,
And let the Devil do his worst.
If e'er dou catch me (which I scorn)
I'th' Pound, den put me in de Corn.

Nay, Bird, if thou art so hot set,
To throw thy self into the Net;
So mad (said she) to visit Hell,
And cannot see when thou art well:
If thou'dst be damn'd before thy day,
Take a Fool's Counsel first, I say.

Within a Wood, near to this place,
There grows a Bunch of Three-leav'd-grass,
Call'd by the

Clowns.

Boglanders, Shamrogues,
A Present for the Queen of

Spirits.

Shoges;
Which thou must first be after-fetching;
But all the Cunning's in the Catching.

For if it please the Gods thy Journey,
'Twill come with ease, and not stubborn be;
Else all the World will not be able
To pull it up with a Rope-Cable.

But Nees, while thou art mitching here,
Thou little dreams of thy Pi-peer.
One of thy Crew is gone before thee,
To sound a Charge in Purgatory.
Go Bury him, the Mourners Feast,
And give a

Spologue.

Black Sheep to the Priest;
While thou art Feasting with thy Men,
Thou may'st come hither back agen.

Thus said, the Prince pull'd off his

Shoes.

Brogues
And trudg'd along with his Comrogues;
Sore troubled, thinking whose was his Chance
To fall to this unlucky Mischance.

Many a strange Conjecture they
Do harbour, while they'r on the Way;
One thinking one thing, and the other
Feeding his Maggot with another.
Last, in great Rage (says Nees,) My Friend,
Vill our Trou-bles ne'er have an end?
Fait dis is a sad Skeal!

Joy.

Arroon!
Saint Patrick Joy! fat's de rea-soon.
Some Devil sure is in the Weend,
Or else indeed Saint Patrick's bleend:
Or is a

Gossiping.

Coshering, I dare bet;
Ill Chaunce upon't, more Anger yet!
Thus discontented march'd poor Nees,
Still blaming unkind Destinies:
Then crys, A Pox upon the Quean,
Who, who the Devil she shou'd mean.
At length, within a Mile or two,
They heard the Irish Hub bub-boo;

Did tear the Woods, and rend the Skies,
With doleful Echo's of their Cries.

Macshane kill'd.

But when unto the Strand they came,
Who shou'd they find, but poor Mac-shane;

Kill'd basely by a sneezing Harper,
Because his Pipes were shrill and sharper.
Thô some, were present at his parting,
Affirm it rather was for Farting.
When with O Triton he'd compare,
To Sound as good a Point-of-War.
Who for his Ave's and his Beads,
When he was dead, did leave three Heads
Of Cattel unto Father

Roger.

Rory,
To pray him out of Purgatory.
Then put they up the Ulster-Shout,
When poor Macshane was stretched out;

Macshane, as dead as any Sheep,
The best that ever blow'd in Peep:
A great Comrogue he was to Hector,
And top't off many a Coge of Nectar:
That us'd to go about for Masters,
Sometimes for Drink, sometimes for Plasters:
Of Musick-errant, 'tis the fate
Sometimes, to have a broken Pate.
Had he but liv'd that Life till now,
He had been dead seven years ago.
He dead, struck up with Gen'ral Nees,
As good a Fellow, by this Cheese,
In all his Bouts of Aale and Peer,
And serv'd in place of his Pi-peer,
At

Gossiping.

Coushers, Wakes; cou'd play

Margery.

Mageen,
Whip off

Gossiping.

Dunboyn, and Dance a Myeen;

And Danc

Towns in Fingaul.

Balruddery. I that he
Cou'd play

Towns in Fingaul.

Portlaughrin, and

Towns in Fingaul.

Bunratty;
And

Song.

Macklemone, so sweet, O dear, it
Wou'd do a dead Cat good to hear it.
Until this whiffling

Farter.

Tuffo-geer
Must Challeng lofty Trumpit-teer;
And did before O Triton Fart,
For which he run him through the Heart.
That fatal unexpected Stab,
For poor Macshane did do his Job.
As soon as Mac his Blood did spye,
He cou'd not for his Life but die.
And therefore every one did weep,
To see poor Mac so fast a-sleep.
But chiefly Nees: Ho! Hub-bub-boo!
Poor Nees, and all his Men may rue

De day dat dou vas dy!

Joy.

Arroon!
Fat made it go away so soon,
And leave dy Lands behind? I tro,
Ill vas dy vont for doing so;
To make a dy, and leave dy Plains,
Dy Cows, dy Sheep, and dy

Horses.

Garrains.
O Hone! Dear-Joy! Is poor Macshane
Vill never blow de Peep again.
O Hone! Macshane! Hub-bub-bub-boo!
Il-lil-lil-lil-lil-lil-lil-loo!

But seeing such a mighty throng
Of Trees, bethought him of the Nun.
Dear-Joy, if this

Three-leav'd-grass.

Shamrogue shou'd prove
By chance to grow in this same Grove;
Shou'd Nees so luckily succeed,
'Twould be Luck in a Bag indeed.
And fait, fy mayn't it prove so too?
All is not false dat she says true.

Scarce had he spake these words, when strait
A Brace of Ducks appeard in sight.
The Prince, as soon as he beheld
His Mothers Brood, he quickly smel'd
A Rat, by th'Feather in the Nose,
And knew them by their Scarlet Hose:
Which was a piece of Yellow Woollen,
To know them from their Neighbours Pullen;
Stitch'd with an artificial Peg,
Like blue Sassoons about the Leg.
Nees, joyful at the sight, did pray
His Mother's Ducks to lead the way;
In Grove so pester'd, that poor Nees
Cou'd not see Wood for throng of Trees;
So waddled after them as close
As he cou'd follow for his Nose.

Thus hotly they pursu'd the Scent,
Crambing their Gorges as they went;
Until they cropt the very Weed,
Where every day they us'd to feed.
Nees, when the Shamrog he did spye,
Cries out, I have it in my Eye,
Is vid me fait. And so he run
To bring the Present to the Nun.

Mean while the Rout to work do fall,

Form of an Irish Funeral.

To Celebrate the Funeral.
And first with Turff from Bog, and Blocks,
They made a Fire wou'd roast an Oxe.
Some lay the Pipkins on, and some
With Holy-water bathe his Bum.
There was the Priest forgiving Sins,
Busie as Hen with two Chick-eens,

'Nointing his Forehead, and his Nose,
And downwards to his Petritoes;
After the Method of his Function,
With Holy Oyl of Extreme Unction.

Which Office decently perform'd,
The Guests, with Usquebagh well warm'd,

Description of an Irish Cabbin.

They raise the Cry. And so they fout him
Unto a Crate, to howl about him;
Built without either Brick or Stone,
Or Couples to lay Roof upon:
With Wattlets unto Wattles ty'd,
(Fixt in the ground on either side)
Did like a shaded Arbour show,
With Seats of Sods, and Roof of Straw.
The Floor beneath with Rushes laid, stead
of Tapestry; no Bed nor Bedstead;

No Posts, nor Bolts, nor Hinges in door,
No Chimney, Kitchin, Hall, or Windor;
But narrow Dormants stopt with Hay
All night, and open in the day.
On either side there was a door
Extent from Roof unto the floor,
Which they, like Hedg-hogs, stop with straw,
Or open, as the Wind does blow:
And tho they reach from top to floor,
His Grace crept in upon all-four.
Betwixt the door there was a spot
I'th' middle, to hang o're the pot;
And had an Engine in the nick,
For pair of Tongues, a

Maddabrist.

broken stick.
I' th'presence was no stool, but one
Old Creel, for Nees to sit upon:
For all the rest, as they did come,
Made Stools and Cushions of their Bum.

In this so rich and stately Cabbin,
To lie in state came this Sea-Crab in,
Dy'd for the nonce in liquid Sable,
And laid him underneath the Table;
Where in one end the parted Brother
Was laid to rest, the Cows in t'other,
With all his Followers and Kin,
Who far and near came crowding in,
With Hub-bub boos, besides what Cryers
For greater state his Highness hires;
Who all come crowding in; and in comes
Monk Corin too, with all his Trinkums;
Who when he had his Office paid,
And for the Dead a while had pray'd,
To their own Sports, (the Masses ended,)
The Mourners now are recommended.

Some for their pastime count their Beads,

An Irish Wake.

Some scratch their Breech, some louse their Heads;
Some sit and chat, some laugh, some weep;
Some sing Cronans

Songs.

, and some do sleep;
Some pray, and with their prayers mix curses;
Some Vermin pick, and some pick Purses;
Some court, some scold, some blow, some puff,
Some take Tobacco, some take Snuff;
Some play the Trump, some trot the Hay,
Some at Macham

A Game at Cards.

, some Noddy play;
With all the Games they can devise;
And (when occasion serves 'em) Cries.

Thus did they mix their grief and sorrow,
Yesterday bury'd, kill'd to morrow;
And mounted him upon a Beer;
Through which the Wattles did appear;

Like Ribbs on either side made fast,
With a

Blanket.

White Velvet over-cast:
So poor Macshane, Good rost his Shoul,
Was after put him in a hole;
In which, with many sighs and scrietches,
They throw his Trouses and his Breeches;
And tattar'd Brogue was after throw,
With a new heel-piece on the toe;
And Stockins Fine as Friez to feel,
Worn out with praying at the heel;
And in his mouth, 'gainst he took Wherry,
Dropt a

Bun-guol.

white Groat to pay the Ferry.
Thus did they make this last hard shift,
To furnish him for a dead lift.

Last having done his Ave Mary's,
And all his Drollans

Fopperies and Trumperies.

and Boldaries,

The Priest, Father O Corin, gi's'em
His Blessing too; calls for the Besom,
Which dipt in Salt and Holy Water,
He does their Coxcombs all bespatter;
And while they for the Blessing stickle,
Did leave them all in sacred pickle.

The Prince, as yet not half content,
Did build a larger Monument;
O're which he carv'd about the middle
The Bagpipes Rampant on a Fiddle.
So fare thee well, since thou art gone;

Sloo Skeal donna no Dees.

The loss of Two is less than One.
And so unto the Nun he packs on,
To put in suit his former Action.

Here first the Prince, who lov'd good cheer,
And Shela make a sad mur-deer

A Fangallian, or Ulster Feast.

On Pigs, and Geese, and Hogs, and Styes,
To offer up a Sacrifice.
Four milk black Sheep, ta'n from the Fold,
And Yearlings three or four year old,
With Hide and Horns, and Guts and all,
Thrust on a Tree, and roasted whole;
Which, with their Durgins and Madoges

Skeins or Knives.

,
They cut upon their greasie Brogues
For Trenchers, and did wipe their Brushes
With Napkins wove of Shags and Rushes.

Betwixt this Cosher,

Gossiping.

and the Nun,
The night was spent, and day begun:
As when a Turf does blaze and burn,
So sprightly did the morning turn,

From a successive Black to White,
Like a new burnt Tobacco-pipe.
Where scarce had they their Mattins don,
When an Enchantment struck the Nun
With sudden Meagrim; and Nees feigns
H' had got a Gamshoge

Game or Sport.

in his Brains;
Where all the Wolves, and Barking Crew
Of Dogs, put up the Hub-bub-boo;
Which scar'd the Prince, until the Nun,
More valiant, made them hold their tongue.
Get out, I say, of this same Lake, you,
You wicked wretches, or I'll make you:
Out, out, you Cuckold's Currs; what, Pox!
Are we a Company for Shocks?

Now Nees, if thou to brave thy Fate,
Has but the Soul of a dead Cat,

Now, now look big, and cock thy Beard:
St. Colom! Is the Prince afear'd?
Draw, draw thy Madog, says the Elf,
And now or never shew thy self:
Now is the word, Nees, Now or Never;
And do it Now, 'tis done for Ever.
Now prove thy self a Man or Mouse,
Or all our Do's not worth a Louse.

So, mad to go they knew not whither,
They shot the Stygian Gulph together;
She first, and Nees did overtake her
Before his Highness could come at her.

But here the Nun, before she leads
Him further, falls unto her Beads;
For she had still (the subtle Fiend,)
Her Prayers upon her fingers end,

Or hanging round her Waste, like Locket,
Which now at last return'd to pocket.
And so when she had done her Graces,

The Ceremonies in entring St. Patrick's Purgatory. Gerraldus Cambrensis, and Hollingshed's Description of Ireland.

Her Cosras, Oras, and her Masses,
Her Aves, Beads, and all the Ce-
Remonies of the Tenebræ;
And invocated every Spirit,
That in those Regions did inherit;
And all the Saints from great

The Patron of Ireland.

St. Patrick,

Founder of Kilkenny.

Kenny, and

Queran of Clonviencis.

, Queran, and

St. Finnia Beatrick of Clonard.

Beatrick,

Cowgal of Beanor

Cowgal, and

St Colm of Lough Erin,

Colom,

Bohineoge, Cousin German to Colm-Kid.

Bohineoge,

Of Lismore.

Mauchey, and

Sancta Maula.

Maule, and

Of Lithmore.

Mauchevoge,

Of Killachy.

Shincheal, and

St. Shinkan, Son of great St. Colm.

Shinkan, and

Sancta Suana.

O Suan,

Brandon of Byrr, in the County of Tipperary, a very Eminent Saint; He was taken up into Heaven in a fiery Chariot. Eusebius apud Osullevan.

Brandon of Byrr, and

Colm O Crowan.

Colm O Crowan,

And

Colm O Kill, who was Cousin to Colm O Crowan, both Eminent Saints.

Colomkill, and

An ancient Saint, whose Life is written by Moulin O Malconry

Phelimback,
And

Gillarnoo, Mac Conembocht, a Saint and great Historian, much recorded in the Irish Legends.

Gillarnoo, and all the pack;
She ceas'd: Nor was there to be found,
Either above or under ground,
In all the Registry, not one
That she forgot to call upon,
To guide her, and her pretty Page,
In Subterranean Pilgrimage.

And thus equipt, they take their Flight,
Without a Link, in a dark Night;
Both fumbling in the dark together,
Tho neither knew which way, nor whither;
Groaping the Air with

Staff.

Bat, and paws,
So dark, they cou'd not feel their Nose.
Now He, now sometimes She did follow;
And sometimes they were forc'd to hollow.

But when they had approach'd the door,

Hic primus Campus est Cruciatuum. Osullevan de Purgatorio Divi Patricii.

They're in worse pickle than before:
There was the Hub-bub-boo, and rack
Of Dear Joys, a disbanded pack:
Sorrow and Tears, Hunger and Cold,

Nihilominus non parvi manes in aulla manserunt qui me inde Rapuerunt. Vici Comes apud Osullevanum.

And Sleep and Death, beneath the Hold;
Discord and Priest-Adultery,
And Fear, and Care, and Jealousie;
And every Cheater and Impostor,
With Thief and Tory there did foster.
About the middle grew a Tree,
A Nest of Lies and Forgery:
Romances and Old Womans Story

Secundus Campus Cruciatuum.

Fill'd the first Page of Purgatory;
And Miracles of Priest and Monk
Do in this Pound lye all defunct.

Legends and Reliques, Simonies,
False Witnesses and Perjuries;
Vain Promises of Catholicks,
Oblig'd to break with Hereticks.
All Arbitrary close Intrigues
Of Monarch, and illegal Leagues.
Indulgence and Equivocation,
Penance, and Mental Reservation.
And here was cramb'd, among the Skulls,
Infallibility and Bulls.
With other Wonders here did Nees
Spy; Entities, Heccieties,
Rationis Ens; and there did lie
Universale à parte Rei.
Teague over reach'd by the Monsieur,
With Vout tres humble Serviteur.

And bloody War will ne're have its end,
Enough to put them to their Wits end.

Here Nees, poor Nees, half scar'd to death,
Forc'd Bilbo from unwilling sheath;
And with a sort of Desperation,
(The Courage of that War-like Nation,)
Fell foul upon the Shades, and dashes
Their Brains with unresisted slashes.
Here had not Shela held the Squire,
Warning the Spirits to retire,
And made 'em vanish great and small,
No doubt he wou'd have kill'd 'em all:
For he did curse and damn, he wou'd
Be

Beating.

frapping of 'em while he stood.

A Hut there was, fenc'd with a Wood,

Pœnarum fluvius.

Trench'd with a Mote, and pav'd with Mud;

Where lodg'd in State the Ferry-Groom,
Mac-Murreartagh O Cha-roon;

An Irish Kern.

Like Woodkern drest in Yellow Stuff,
And Trouses made of Blanket proof;
A Satyr's Beard; and on his Head
He wore a Scollopt read

Cap.

Barrede;
His

Hair.

Glibbs hung down like Tails of Rats,
His

Eyes.

Goggles flam'd like Eyes of Cats:
Where there was neither

Crisped Bushes of Hair, worn by the Wild Irish over their Foreheads, to deface them. Spencer of the State of Ireland.

Crisp nor Curl,
The very But-end of a Churl.
His Mantle made of Blew Scar-leet,
Which reach'd almost unto his Feet,
He with a Wattle Twist had ty'd,
With Knot from Shoulder unto Side:
About his well set Legs he drew
Stockins, a pair of Mazareen-Blue,

Turn'd in-side out, a shift in need,
To stop the Holes on t'other

Side.

sheed;
A Dish-clout round his Neck was hung,
And wore his Brogue upon his Tongue:
For Tongue a Brogue supply'd the Strain;
And yet he had more Tongue than Brain.

And in this manner he transported
All Customers that there resorted;
Both Rogues, and Thieves, and VVhores, and Jades;
All sort of Devils, except Trades.

Teague a Trade! Ub-bub-bub-boo.

VVhere you might see the Spirits fly
As swift as Atoms in the Sky:
Others, to gain the Banks do strive,
In Swarms, like Bees about an Hive;
As thick as Hops they crowd and hover,
Expecting who shall first get over.

But he, the Churlish Cur, to ease
Their hearts, will do but what he please:
Some he takes in, and some he knocks
VVith his

Pole.

Goadeen from off the Rocks.
VVhat strugling there was there? O Lord, Sir!
VVhat work was there to be a-Boord Sir?

Nees at the Clatter making wonder,
VVas mad the Business to stand under;
And catching her by the Plac kete,
Says, (My Dear Joy) fat's de Rac-kete,
Or fat a Devil here ado's?
Is Hell indeed ybroke it loos?
How comes it thus, says he, about,
Some are took in, and some thrust out?
Some hop upon de Water, and
Some swim on Ditches, and dry Land?

Nees (she replies), my Duck and Dearing,
Cast a Sheeps Eye upon

Lough Erin and Lough Neagh, Two Loughs in Ulster, so famous for converting Wood into Stone. Hollingshed de Lacu Ultoniæ.

Lough Erin,
Whose Flouds to a Whetstone turn a Blockhead:
And judg hereby if I do mock it.
Those Souls you see, are dead; Car-roon,
That owns the Ferry, is the Loon;
Those that to be transported strive,
Have bury'd been dead or alive:
But for the rest, that want a Burial,

Dolorum Campus.

May wander here till they are weary all,
And fast a Thousand Lents, before he
Can have the Grace of Purgatory.

While he was gazing round about,
Wh' a Pox shou'd drop into his Mout,

But old Sir Loughlin Lucas, who ran
From Portsmouth Bay, with Derby Oram,
When the sad storm did fall upon 'em,
And one of the two both did drown 'em.
Forty gay Officers beside,
Lost with the Ship for want of Guide.
Here Nees was in a horrid pain,
To know Sir Loughlin's Christen'd Name;
And whisper'd Shela in the Ee,
Who swore she knew no more than he.
With these was Palinure, the Swabber,
Drown'd in a Sea of Banne-clabber.
Nees, in a maze, cry'd, Palinure,
Dear Joy; and art thou dead for sure?
Fat Devil vast took dee from me?
Had I no Rogue to loose but dee?

And be dis is a sorry Skeal.
Not so, Nees, but de

Blind.

bleend

Rudder.

Pad-dele,
On sudden vas be overbore me,
And made me throw my Face before me.
But by dis Flood, and Fate and Trote,
And by de pleasant Hill of

The Hill of Hoth in Fingaul.

Hote,
My Care when dou vas on dat shelf,
Vas more for dee, den for my self;
Left all alone to guide de Cot,
For fear dy self shou'd go to pot.
Three Irish Nights in Cold and Frost,
Upon de

Water-Weeds.

Curtlaughs I vas tost,
Till making to a little flash,
Expecting there a Landing Plaace,
A Crew of English, Dutchland Knaves,
Vas break my Face in two three halves,

And vid a Monmouth

Sythe.

Symi-teer,
Vas cut my Head from my Shouldeer:
Which I indeed of Death in speet,
Bore through de vater in my Teet.
Riding full post when I was dead,
To Dublin Bay from

In Fingaul.

Malaheed.
And now de Head and Carcass bleed,
Ten times kill'd over since indeed.
Derefore (Dear Joy) to have no Grave,
Is all de favour dat I crave;
To do so much for a poor Soul,
To throw my Carcass in a hole;
For Nees (say he), if thou vill meend it,
Amongst the Curtlaghs dou vill feend it;
Where it does lye in safe Cust-ody,
No flesh alive, but the dead Body.

And, dear Joy Vench, for Nees's sake,
Help me to trot the Donny-Lake;
Dat my poor Soul may prick his Ears,
And rest in peace with my Fa-deers.

How, Palinure, (reply'd the Scold)
'Twixt me and

God,

Good, thou art too bold:
Wou'dst thou pretend to be a Spirit,
And go to Hell e're thou art bury'd?
No, no; do not mistake thy self,
The Devil is no such silly Elf.
But I will tell thee for thy Comfort,
Wee'll search thy Carcass out in some Port:
If it from th'

Eels.

Snigs we can retrieve,
Or Crows han't bury'd thee aleeve;
And raise a Tomb shall still endure
The Name of honest

Now Killinure, within five miles of Dublin.

Palinure.

Thus being appeas'd, they move their Station
Towards the Confines of Purgation.
The Ferry-man, that kept the Port,
Perceiving such a strange Resort,
Of Monsters, making t'wards the Strand,
Cry'd out in War-like manner, Stand:
Who, who comes dat? Stand, who comes dat?
Or vid my Pike I'll fire dy Pate.
Believe me, ho, who e're appears,
Thus armed to 'sault our Quar-teers;
You shall not pass, until I know
A Reason why you shall or no.
Therefore to shun a farther ill,
Stand off, I say, at your peril:

This place is for a legless Crew,
And not such o're-grown Calves as you:
Nor can our Wherry bear such Loobies;
I deal with Shadows, not such Boobies.

Nor truly did they fare so well,
The Tories that came last to Hell,
O Sheil, Mac Teage, and Owen Roe,
Tho they were Gentlemen, you know:

They were Irish-men.

And sure you cannot choose but hear
What hurly-burly they made there;
How they were like to beat the Porter;
Broke up the Doors to take free Quarter:
And then, forsooth, 'tis in our Hist'ries,
Nothing wou'd serve 'em but my Mistress;
Rummag'd the Buttery, and the Spence,
And ravish'd the poor Kitchin-wench.

The Tories plaid the Devil i'th' shape,
Of Plunder, Burglary, and Rape:
To save the House was all our fears,
From being fir'd about our Ears.

Hold, hold! My Ears thou'rt after grateing;
I prithee (Dear Joy) peace thy prating,
Says Shela; dost thou think that we
To go to Hell need Policy?
But honest Nees, well-known for leading
An Army off, and eke for Beading,
Only to see his Sire, his Highness
Comes out of meer stark Love and Kindness,
To get disarm'd off all his Glory,
A Colonel's place in Purgatory.

If all those Charms cannot prevail,
I'll shew thee yet a better Tail;
A Tail it is, contains such matter,
Wou'd make thy very Teeth to water:
Dost thou see this? Thou simple Ass,
Dost think I come without my Pass?
So pulling out her Three-leav'd Blossom,
Which lay as close as Louse in Bosom,
Crys out, Do you see this, you damn'd Rogue?
He crost himself to see the Shamrogue;
Turn'd up his Whites, but cou'd not vent
One word, for very wonderment.

Vill dou see dis? Vere are dy Ears?
Do's tink dat Lees have no Beg-geers?
And now no Tanks unto your Brogue-a,
Ve vill go o're vid dis Shamroge-a.

Ill Smell upon dee, and dy Pink,
Dou art a Guddinghang, I tink,
Reply'd the Kern; and being pleas'd
To see the Branch, his Fury ceas'd:
As fast as he cou'd drive, took Paddle,
And clapt his Bum into the Saddle.
To serve the Prince, and make the Nun-room,
He lath'd the Hould, and clear'd the Gun-room.

Nees over-grown with Calves and Chins,
And Guts as heavy as his sins,
No sooner stept upon the Hatches,
But every Plank and Cable retches;
And had not Shela us'd a Spell,
He had gone ne're t'have crack't the Shell,
Throw which the Water strain'd did flow,
As fast as Milk through wisp of straw.

Thus having past the Stygian Flood,
He landed them upon the Mud;
Half bury'd, half in water drown'd,
Dawbing and wallowing in Lobb's Pound;
Through Woods and Boggs, each step, poor Nees
Above the Calf, and She her Knees:
Bare-legg'd, bare-footed, and bare-thigh'd,
The Nymph made many a graceful stride.
Her Coats about her Waste tuck't high,

A Fingallian Woman.

Her Smock advanc'd above her Thigh;
Her Gown of finest Scarlet Freez,
With Puddle-dirt above her Knees;
Sultana like, on Water-Tabb,
Instead of Lace, some call a Drabb:
Her Smock Sultana'd with the same,
Fit to array so spruce a Dame;

Hanging in Plates so thick and wide,
Nees cou'd between, a Gallop ride:
A Ready Artificial Mode,
To stride more easie on the Road,
Or sit at home at naked Rock,
And do her Business in her Smock.
To lug her Child out of the Water,
(As he before had done his Father)
She carries him upon her back;
If he a Dram o'th' Bottle lack,
Cou'd should'ring throw her Breasts behind,
To suck as oft as he had 'mind:
A Charity not rarely done;
For there they suck at Forty One.
Her Waste as slender as her Cows,
With a White Kerchief on her Brows;
Her brawny Calves, and Splay-foot bare,
Her Thighs like moving-Pillars were;

And with an equal distance wide;
So natural 'twas for her to stride.
About her Ears her golden Main
Hung down, like Pack-thread dy'd in Grain;
Her Stockins twisted like an Harslet,
She wore about her Neck for Bracelet;
And as Antipodes, the Jade,
Carry'd her Brogues upon her head:
Their naked Trunks they thus expose,
To save th'expence of Shooes and Hose.
A penitential Voyage, and sory,
They make to come to Purgatory.

Here did that Monster first appear,
That threefold headed Dog, Cer-beer;
Stretch'd in the door, set up the howl,
A Leash of Wolves were in his Jowl;

Until the Witch to get to Hell,
Had cramb'd him with inchanted Spell.
So being soop't with Usquebagh,
He went to sleep, They on their way;
And enter (if you'l credit Story)
The Magick Gates of Purgatory.

The first place where the Ghosts did haunt 'em,

Limbus Infantum.

The Ancients call'd, Limbus Infantum.
Here they beheld a numerous Train
Of Orphans in the Wars were slain;
Some mounted upon Pikes, and some
Torn from the dying Mothers Womb;
With Embrio's, and prodigious Throngs
Of Infants got by Priests and Nuns,

In Abbies, and in Monastries,
And murder'd by the Votaries,
To cloak a Venial Sin; to whom
A Pit, or Privy was their Tomb;
The Issue of the Bed defil'd,
Honora's Bastard,

Alice.

Alsoon's Child.
And here did Nees spy his poor Soldiers,
Thrust in a hole by head and shoulders;
Where they behind left both their Ears,
For running from the K---'s Cool leers:
Some run the Gantlet in the Fields,
Others with Gads ty'd Neck and Heels:
Some mounted on the Wooden-Horse;
And some with Hemp were mounted worse.

Nor does this thing by Chance succeed,
But as by th'Judges it is decreed:
For by a Court of Clamper, 'een

The Seat of Four Courts in Dublin, call'd Hell.

As it is this day in Dub-leen;

I say, a Court of Clamper held
In Hell it self; they are compell'd
All to appear at the next Sessions,
And there to make their true Confessions;
Where Father Mine gives Absolution;
Or else they're sent to Execution:
For every one, amongst the Spirits,
Takes place according to his Merits.

Limbus Amatorum.

In the next Limbo he discovers
A desperate Troop of whining Lovers;
Who in their Melancholly Fits,
For Madness, run out of their Wits.

Amongst this Train he spy'd the Widdow,
His Old Acquaintance, Guddy Dido,

That pin'd to Death, (the fawning Strap)
Some say for Love, some of a Clap;
When from her Nees turn'd Helm a Larbour,
To Anchor in false Jen---'s Harbour.
Nees gliding at her through the Shade,
Cast a Calve's Eye from a Sheep's Head:
If I han't lost my little Senses,
Sure, sure, says Nees, dis my old Vench is.

But when he drew more nigh her Quarters,
And knew her by her Straw-twist Garters,
Up to her face he boldly went,
And thus he made his Complement:
Dear Dido! dou unlucky Jade,
Ill chaunce upon dee, art dou dead?
Take little sneezing for de King.
But she reply'd, and said No-ting;

Minding no more his senseless Babling,
Than if she were a Rock of

In Fingaul.

Mablin.

Sure, sure, says Nees, she does but jest,
Dis of de Natures not the Beast;
Pre-dee come here, my pretty Rogue,
And give me de one little

Kiss.

Poge,
For Old Acquaintance; for it's dee,
Dat is my only Cram-ma-cree.
I pre-dee now, my dear Joy, stay;
Vat Devil make it run away?
She cannot hold one Touch, but itching,
Is after be, to run a Bitching.
Shall never pass so vid her Bears;
Nees has not seen dese Tousand years.
Let's sit, and smoke a Peep for pastime;
A parting Kiss: Dis is de last Time.

Kiss me! phooo! Fart upon dee, Nees,
Dou may as rader Kiss my Breech.
And now I know dee for a Rogue,
I scorn dee as Dirt of my Brogue.
Belching an Oyster in her Fist,
I care not dis for all dy grist.
So fled as nimble as the Wind,
(Bidding the Prince to kiss behind,)
To Sichy, the old Cuckold nigh,
Where she to Fish had other fry.
Thus bawk'd, they march from Lovers Pound,

Limbus Armatorium.

Until they came to Champion Ground;
Where they did camp with Sword and Shield,
That lost their Lives in bloody Field;
Their Heads cut in Three halves, e're they
Cou'd have the time to run away.

Here Nees met Tedy, and Macarty,
Scot, Dempsy, and Scolloge na Party,
O Connor Bourk, and Owen Medon,
Mackillacud, and Poul O Padon,
And his Comrogues, so lately broken,
Sent for the Devil to a Token:
In Rank and File they all drew out,
On every hand, to view the Lout.
Nor is't enough they saw his Grace;
Like Sots, but they must stand to gaze;
Crowding about him all to hear,
And learn what News in Shamrogsheer.
They curst the Flemmings, and the French,
But highly prais'd his Excellence,
His Zeal and Conduct, (when the day
Was lost, his Wit) to run away.

His Back no sooner turn'd, i'th' place
But they abus'd him to his Face.

But the poor Danes, and Red-Shank Rogues,
As soon as they beheld his Brogues,
And bloody Bionet draw near,
Their

Caves under ground. They were the ancient habitation of the Danes, visible in many parts of Ireland to this day.

Conny-holes did stink for fear:
Some run away, and some did throng
To speak, but cou'd not find a Tongue:
For they resolved on't, they said,
No-ting to say, when they were dead.
So muzzled in inchanted Noose,
They cou'd not to a Bo, say Goose.
In Recompence of which dumb Show,
All they cou'd have from Nees, was Ooo-gh.

And now not thinking more than I am,
Who shou'd he see, but young O

Priam. Fingallian, Bryan, or O Bryan, descended from Heber, the White ancient Kings of Munster.

Priam.

So Clapperclaw'd, you'd think his Grace
Had got an Ear-mark in his Face:
His Face was broken in three halves,
Patch'd o're with Plasters, and with Salves.
Besides, his Ears were cut, and Locks,
And Nose was eaten by the Pox.
So simply look't poor Priam oge,
So pepper'd was the Donny Shoge,
That Nees, (for all his Cunning Pate)
Cou'd scarce discern his Fellow mate;
But when he view'd his Couch of Straw,
And found he was the Man he saw,
He clapt his hands; but first he crost him,
And thus he after did accost him:

Dear Bryan oge, and is it you?
Pox take you, Broder, How do you do?

What, Hell-Beast, art thou yet alive?
Blood of the Kings! How dost thou thrive?
My Shole and Be, I am as Joy
To see dee, as a Cob, my Boy.
Joy, vilt dou take a litile Snuff,
For King and Queen? Joy, take enough:
Or if dou'd rather smoak a Peep
For de young Prince. Art dou asleep?
With that he hit him such a Thump,
As struck him flat upon his Rump,
In point of Courtesie; and so
Desired of his Grace to know,
What Devil brought him to that Meen,
To make him look so Shaggereen?
Vat Traitor vas be so disloyal,
To Coventry, the Blood of Royal?

Vat Guddihang durst be so bold?
And fate and be, my self vas told,
Ven dou vas after being dead,
Vas make me break my heart in Deed;
Den did poor Nees upon de Green,
Put up for dee a dead Cof-feen,
Vid Flags, and Scutcheons in a Crate,
Built for de Prince to lye in State:
Thrice did I raise the Hull-lil-loo!
To save dee Shoule, but 'twou'd not do:
For, fate, and be, my own Bro-deer,
Altho I writ dee a Let-teer,
Ven dou was dead, and turn'd to dust,
(My own heart too vid sorrow burst)
One word in Answer did not come, Son,
Or a Green-Sod had been thy Tombstone.

God bless thee, Nees, said he; much Grace
And Goodness light on that sweet Face:
My dear Joy, thou hast don me all
The Honour of a Funeral.
But 'tis my Irish Luck indeed;
Lacene, the Witch that made me bleed,
(And forc'd me in this Pound to waver)
These are the Tokens of her Favour.
When the Dutch-Horse leapt o're the Wall,
And made the Fort one Funeral;
When wake, we found the Town a burning,
And all our Throats cut in the Morning.
But prethee Nees, in sober sadness,
What Dee'l possest thee with this Madness,
That thou should'st leave thy stout Brigades,
Thy Bannaclab, and thy Pottades,

Thy Cows, thy Sheep, and thy Garrans;
Thy Slimbred, and thy good

A Three Corner'd Oat-Cake.

Stow-ans;
Thy Woods and Bogs, and thy fat Soil,
In Darkness here to toss and toil;

Pœnarum fernox.

In such a Malapert as this is,
Where all our Fare is empty Dishes.
What shou'd the Prince do here among us,
Where's neither Brandy, nor Mundongus?
All at Board-Wages, hard enough,
Three pence a Week to buy us Snuff:
And, Faith, when we are paid together,
We do not get that Three pence neither.

In this, and in such Nonsence, they
Did blunder out the live-long day;
Till Night began to light her Matches,
Putting on Vizard, and Black patches;

And from a Goddess to a Witch, She
Turn'd in a Trice as black as Gypsie;
When she to rate 'em thus begun,
What, Sirrahs! will you ne're have done?
'Sdeath! have I nothing else to do,
But sit all day to stand to you?
Full time it is we should be trudging,
E're it be dark to seek a Lodging.
Are we come here, says she, to sleep?
(Laughing to see the Mawkins weep)
No, Nees, this Irish Melancholly
Will never do; forbear thy Folly:
Or we may lose our selves in new ways:
(For there was here a Cross of Two ways)
But how to go the right way home,
Nees knew no more than Pope of Rome;
But Shela, who was read full well
In all the Cavities of Hell,

Taking the Prince about the middle,
The Mystery did soon unriddle.

That on the Right, says she, before thee,
Is the high Road to Purgatory;
That on the Left's the beaten Road
Unto the Devils Chief aboad;
Which out of Favour he intends,
And keeps it for his better Friends.
You know it, (Sir) march on, I pray;
You Goodman Two Brogues, that's your way.

Nay, do not rage, reply'd the Prince;
Have but a little patience,
And if my Company's uneasie,
I'm vanish'd in a Trice, to please ye.
I go, I go, to fill the number
Of those that never sleep nor slumber;

Confin'd into a little Cot,
Where there is neither Pipe nor Pot:
No Two Pence Ord'nary is here,
As much as Frumaty-Cel-leer:
Nay, not as much has Bryan oge,
To put in's head, as one Shamroge.

Vell, vell, said Nees, vat can be cur'd,
Poor Bryan must not be endur'd:
So clapping

A Plug of Tobacco.

Pig-Tail in his Fist,
They parting cry'd, and crying, kist.

Nees, gaping round about him, spies
Under the ground an Edifice,
Surrounded with a Tripple Moat,
Where Ducks and Geese cou'd walk a-float;
And with impregnable Bastoons,
And Counterscarps, and Demiloons;

Where they had planted Ashes tall,
To stop the growing of the Wall:
Of all appear'd above the ground,
Not half a Foot was to be found,
But Mud, and Sods, a Bridge to pass,
And that was cover'd o're with Grass:
A Gate there was of wondrous scope,
On Wooden Bolts did shut and ope,
To let in People as they throng,
And keep 'em in when they were gone;
Rough-cast with yellow Lime and Mortar,
Where lay asleep the watchful Porter;
A very fit and proper House, Sir,
For such a worthy Guest to Cosher.

Nees weary grown, and loth to budg,
Took up his Quarters in the Lodg;
Swearing he cou'd not part, not for his
Own Leef, till he got

Door Cup.

Dough a Dorris.

With that the Porter brought 'em out
A Meddar stopt with a clean Clout;
Which tho 'twas reckon'd but a small one,
Contain'd Three halfs of a whole Gallon.
Come Wench (says Nees), Dram of the Bottle;
With that, soak't off a whole half Pottle:
She pledg'd him half, more modest, and he
With Butter qualify'd the Brandy.

Scarce had they drank, when they were scar'd

Secuudus Campus, Dolorum.

With Horror, which the Frolick marr'd:
For here they heard such Hull-lil-loo's,
Such Scrietches, and such Hub-bub-boo's,

Hinc sui ductus in alium Campum miseria doloribusque Fuuestissimum Vice comes apud Osullevan

With Iron Bolts each loaded Stamper,
Ratling of Chains, and such a Clamper,
Put Nees into such Panick Fears,
His Brains were sunk into his Ears:

The little Remnant Nurse with Mout,
Had left from sucking through his Snout;
Which way of draining, does appear,
Makes Wit so scarce in Shamrogeshire.

Nees, shaking like an Aspin Leaf,
Under her Coats flown for Relief,
Crys, My Dear Joy, vat's here de heat?
Shela, vat's mean dis sad Rack-ete;
Dat, dat we cannot for de noise,
Ve cannot for 'em hear our Eyes?

In Parables, mysterious Nun,
T'inform his Highness thus begun;
Altho the Prince her Learn'd Discourse,
No more stood under than his Horse;
Sometimes said, I, and sometimes No,
When neither, salv'd it up with Ooo-gh.

Oh! Thou great Prince of Sheep and Cattel,
That never yet turn'd Face to Battel;
To run you thro' the Stygian Histories,
There's very few discern these Mysteries:
Yet for the Grace I have with Joaney,
Queen of the

Spirits.

Shoges, and my one Croney,
I know as much (Nees) as another,
But dare not tell't, were it my Brother:
Yet if thou'rt curious to know,
I'll strain a Point: Nees answer'd, Ooo-gh.

I must not do't, and yet, said she,
Tho we are Sworn to Secrecy;
I'll tell it, Nees, tho I should hang:
Was not Anchees, that

Fit for nothing but the Gallows.

Guddihang,
My own Gos-sope, and thy own Mother,
Did stand with me to twenty other?

Hold, hold, a little Joy, says Nees,
Dere's yet a Crimsho on de Lees;
Ere you begin, drink off your Ale,

Skerrit Dough no Skeal.

For Drink is shorter den your Tale.

With that about went wodden Meddar,
Till both were Drunk and slept together
Under a

Blankit or Covering.

Plad, which did extend
Cross the long Hall, from end to end:
On Litter lay'd, like Horse at Manger,
Which serv'd for Family and Stranger.

This was their Fare in Purgatory,
But you, says Nees, forget your Story.

Rouze up; Before we go abroad,
I'le tell it Nees upon the Road.

In such Discourse they march along,
Then to her Tale she turn'd her Tongue.

The Guddihang, that ruleth all
The Roast in Hell, is call'd Old Noll.
Mac Rhadamanth, a furious Devil,
Severe Revenger of all Evil:
Tho some Nick-name him

Old Rogue.

Old Scollogue,
Others do call him

Young.

Robbin-oge.
He is the Prince of all this Province,
Abbot of the Infernal Covents;
If he but catch you in his Nabb,
Will make thy Dock squirt Bannaclab;

Sower Milk.

For every slip will lay

A Stroke.

a Wolt,
And strong

A Cudgel.

Mus-tard for every fault;
For all thy Roguery and Tricks,
And play the Devil on two Sticks.

I wou'd not be in his Condition,
That dares call Penance, Superstition;

Keeps Sundays, and Revileth Mass-days,
Eats Fish on Feasts, or Flesh on Fast-days;
Of Saints and Images speak slightly,
Fears not the Priest more than th'Almighty:
Who Merit slights, nor hopes Salvation,
In Works of Superarrogation.
These are Offences High and Menial;
But all the rest, said she, are Venial,
And bring no guilt upon a Nation,
As Murders, Plots, and Fornication.

Dolorem puteus.

And now with horrid Noise, which no Pen
Can e're describe, the Doors did open;
As if all

A Town in the heart of Fingaull.

Lusk and Cannought too,
Were joyn'd in one loud Hub-bub-boo.
See'st thou that Monster with the Tail,
That ugly Monaghan

Fetterd.

Spanci-all,

The worst of all the Devils? Within
Are worse a thousand times than him.
And Hell it self from this same Brink,
Is distant twice as far you'd think:

Phelim ghe Medona, The highest Hill in Ireland.

As Phelim Ghe Medlona, from
The lowest Valley of the

A Valley in Kildare; Whence the Motto of the Geraldines, Crom-a Boo. Gigantum Campus.

Crom.
Here did the ancient Danes Retreat in,
And all the Giants make their Seating.
Haco, Storater, and Bastollenon,
The old O Ruan, and O Collenon;
Whose Tombstone was (as it is sung)
Three hundred twenty two Foot long.
And there was Osker, great Mac Osin,
Who was to great O Fin near Cousin:
His Fathers-Brothers-Uncles Bard,
Call'd for that cause, his own Bas-tard.

Chastis'd with Whips, (a woful story,)
Against Nassau, for turning Tory;
With great O Salmon, a sad sight he,
Who wou'd be Mac, and O Almighty:
Insulting o're the petty Rabble,
Till he was met by th'Cones-table.
From all his Haughtiness was slur'd,
And fell at last into a T---
Even to a Spanlong, from a stride,
For Fall at last will have a Pride.

And here was that prodigious Tooll,
That Monstrous Giant,

The great Garragantua of Ireland—So famous in the Irish Chronicles.

Finn Mac-Heuyle;
Whose Carcass bury'd in the Meadows,
Took up nine Acres of Pottados:
Nees cou'd not find out, shoud he Rake Hell,
And skim the Dee'l, such a Mi-racle.

What shou'd I talk of

A valiant Conqueror; He overcame the Picts. Vide Cambrensem de rebus Hybernicis.

Oma Loughlin,
Dermot O

Kings of Connough, descended from Heber, the White. Baron of Finglas.

Roirk,

Kings of Connough, descended from Heber, the White. Baron of Finglas.

Perish O Coughlin?
That it wou'd grieve thy Guts, I'm sure,
To feel what Penance they endure.
Under their Head there hangs a Skein,
Ready to drop into their Brain;
Over their Nose prepared lies
A sumptuous Banquet of great price.
Pottados, and a Spole of Pork,
Where Nees long'd sore to be at work;
Opsters, and Loysters; A Gam-moon,

Lobsters and Oysters.

And Ham of yellow fat Ba-coon.
And Butter to eat with their Hog,
Was seven years buryed in a Bog;
Enough for three full second Courses:
And tho' they Stomacks had like Horses,

As Ravenous as Mountain-Bears,
They durst not touch it for their Ears.
Often they labour to Inclose,
But still fall short, length of their Nose:
For if they offer but to stir'em,
There is a Fury ready for'em;
A little Devil, that does watch 'em,
Wou'd claw their Jackets, if she catch 'em;
And always has her Rods in pickle,
If they presume, their Ribs to tickle:

And be 'tis very hard, said Nees,
To be so tempted by dis Chees;
To be invited to de Host,
And den be beaten by de Rost;
Now had I as leeve nor a groat,
I had de

Hagg.

Callagh by de Throat:

Dat I might teach her Irish Breeding,
That is good, Hospitable Feeding.

For when Nees spy'd the Dishes, he
Had like to have strain'd his Modesty;
Yet he of Manners wou'd make show,
But cou'd not for his Guts tell how.
And was Resolv'd, as a Sol-deer,
To make each place his free Quar-teer;
But scratching of his Head at last,
Found 'twas unluckily a Fast!
For Nees of Knowledge had no Lack,
Had in his Guts an Almanack.
Knew by the Motion of the Sun,
When 'twas a Fast, and when 'twas none;
And now (a Pox on all ill Luck,)
The Fast in Nees's Stomach stuck;
But being Hungry both, and Dry,
(For Law has no necessity.)

And since his Hunger could not well
Digest with Complements in Hell,
Clapping his Hand on Basket-hilt,
With fury as he were to Tilt;
In mighty Rage, swore by that Book,
He'd have it, or by Hook or Crook:
And what shift (think you) made the Lorance,
But slily to pretend Ig-norance;
For Ignorance the Gods appeases,
A Soveraign Cure for all Diseases.
The tender Mother of Devotion,
Which Project, Nees, did put in Motion,

Child.

That she would favour her own Shiled,
And o're a lame Dog help the Stile;
Who without Priest or Dispensation,
Salves all with Mental Reservation;
And this the substance was o'th' Plot,
To Eat, and then say, he forgot.

Nees fell on Ham; then cry'd, a Gray,
Shela (dear Joy,) fat day's to day?
And be I do deserve a Beating;
For fate, I tink, I'm after Eating.
I am undone! Il-lil-lil-loo!
I am undone! What shall I do?
Oh Nees! Thou art a wicked Liver,
I am undone, disgrac'd for ever.
Now for this Trick, Hunger and Cold
Be thy Reward, to be so bold;
The Pope can't Absolution give,
Eat Flesh upon St. Patricks Eve!

Despair, ill Luck.

Spereen upon thy Fathers Brood,
And may it never do thee good.

Baas gus Taggard.

Be Death, without a Priest, thy Doom,
And no Dog howl upon thy Tomb.

Say on dy Padreen, till dou Burst,
De Fox fares better Vhen hee's Curst:
And now (says he) I see my Fare,
De Devil take me, if I spare;
For over Boot, fate over Shoo;
And so in Earnest he fell too,
For Chair, upon a Pannier set,
For all was Fish came to his Net.

Shela, that by this time grew dry,
With Cursing Nees, and Progeny,
Spying a whole Churn on the Tilt,
More then half fill'd with Butter-Milk;
Got up the

Churn.

Cunnoge to her Knee,
And took a Dose for Company;
But of the Butter would not tast,
'Cause (as you heard) it was a Fast.

Here Nees to shew that he was free,
And given to Hospitallity,

('Cause he one scrape had not left more,)
Order'd the Fragments to the Poor.
Here lodg'd a pack of envious Brothers,

Campus Impiorium.

And Sons of Whores, that beat their Mothers;
With cheating Lawyers, here spy'd Nees,
Who Rob their Clients of their Fees:
Test-Breakers, and Law-Dispensators,
And Corporation Regulators;
Who more unconstant than the Tide,
For Interest, change from Side to Side.
A throng, amongst these Temporizers,
He finds of Usurers and Misers;
Who cark and care, to leave it all
To Fools, to Piss against the Wall.
Whore-mongers, and old Fornicators
Slain in Adultery, and Traytors,

Who rush into unlawful Battle,
And Steal their Landlords Sheep and Cattle:
To make their Penance, here are fain,
And get their Pen'worth for their pain.
It is but needless to Importune,
To know the difference of their Fortune;

Pœnarum vallis & Rota.

Some grind the Quern, and never part it;
Some hang on Trees, and some are Carted,
The Maids beat Hemp, the Boys twist Gads,
Some High-way Rogues, and some Dog-Pads;
Snuff-Stealers, Geese, and Hen-roost divers,
Sheep-Nappers some, and some Hog-Drivers.
Where each one had, as they did try 'em,
Their Sentence suited to their Crime.
Some Burnt i'th' Hand, and some serv'd worse,

A Mare.

For Stealing Mother of the Horse.

The Rebels, Tories, and such Rogues,
That Dy'd untimely in their Brogues,
In Hell are ty'd up from their Meat,
No bit to Drink, nor drop to Eat.

That silly Rogue, for hopes of Gain,
Burnt a Cravat of Point Lorrain,
Because his Lady made a brace
Of Cobbs, by burning Silver Lace.
That Mawkin there hangs by the Head,
For picking Paint off Ginger-bread;
And lies expos'd to Wind and Weather,
Extracting Gold from Gilded Leather.
This on the Pill'ry lost his Breath,
With Eggs and Turnips ston'd to Death.
That Guddihang lost both his Ears,
Penance for Gutting the Oys-teers:
This Fool his Letter Six-pence cost,
To save the charge of Penny-Post

This dropt his Candles in the Mire,
And after dry'd 'em at the Fire;
And many suffer in these Pounds,
For passing Half-pence for Half-Crowns.
Where Thesy sits, the saddest Soul
That ever

Drank.

yelpt in Wooden Bowl,
Crying (in sort of scornful Laughter,)
Learn better Manners, then, hereafter.
I'll teach you Monaghans to tell,
And know St. Patrick from Tom Bell.
That Lawless Prince, a Captive lies,
(Ready for spite, to eat his Eyes)
Did sell our Country for a Spell,
And now makes Penace for't in Hell:
He broke our Heads, and for a Paister,
Did place upon us a harsh Master.

One Tyrant brought into disgrace,
And put a Greater in his place.
He by a sinister Intreague,
Did, with his Country, sell poor Teague
Eternal Slave to the Monsieur,
As he had lost Two Farms before.
Made Laws, and Vows, and Promises,
And broke 'em all, to break poor Nees.
That Fornicator Teague O Raughter,
Did Trip a Dance with his own Daughter,
And joyn'd his Giblets, against all
The Laws Ecclesiastical.
But if I had a Thousand

Tongues.

Brogues,
I could not Name thee all the Rogues;
Nor beat into thy addle Brains,
Their various Punishments and Pains.

Thus said the Nun, when she no more
Cou'd find to say, she then gave o're;
Exhorting Nees to rise his sitting,
Observe his hits, and mind his knitting;
And stir his Lazy Stumps apace,
To give the Present to her Grace.

Nees by this time (the Board made clean,)
Began to buckle on his

Knife.

skein;
And ready to attend the Nun,
Took

Grace Cup.

Dough an Olt, and so trudg'd on.

Thus gorg'd, they foot it both together,
Throw Glin and Corough, God knows whither;
Till at the Cabbin they arriv'd,
So richly for the Queen contriv'd;

There was i'th' Porch a Font of Water,
Wherewith Nees did his Chops bespatter.
Then with a Prayer, which he did say,
Profoundly blest for the whole day;
He fell a fumbling for the Posies,
Which strait Transplanting, from his

Breeches.

Trousies;
With Courtesy and Eloquence,
(Becoming so Renown'd a Prince:)
Crys, Take your Present for a Whore,
So threw the Shamrog in the door.
For gifts, (not staying the unlocking,)
Like Irish, enter without Knocking;

This done, about the Coasts he beats

Limbus Patrum.

Of the

Fair, handsom.

gay Woods, and happy Seats:

100

With Christal Springs, and now they water'em
Upon the Banks of Limbo Patrum.
Where Nees no sooner had set Footing,
But, over-joy'd, he fell a Hooting;
So proud he Stalk'd, upon the sudden,
Nees hardly knew the Ground he stood on:
And of his Senses half bereaven,
Swore a great Oath, he was in Heaven.
Wandring till now, without a Spark,
Groaping for Shela in the Dark;
So late Redeem'd from smoaky Huts,
Their Eyes were dazled with the Sluts:
For here the Old

Old Rogues

Sculloques were all
In a large Field as warm as Wooll;
And had (exempted from our Cares,)
Their own, both Sun, and Moon, and Stars.

101

A Slut supplies the place of Candle,
In Socket of split Deal, for Handle:
With Rushes steept in Kitchin-Scurf,
And stuck in Candlestick of Turf:
And Fire enough to Tost their Nose.
Some Exercise, and some Repose;
On Rushes some, and some on Pallets;
Some Vermin pick, and some pick Sallets:
Some pace the Whip, some trot the

A Dance.

Hay,
Some at their Beads, and some at play.
Have you, in the gay Town of Lusk,
Observ'd their Sports about the Dusk
Of Patrons-Eve, when all the Rout
Of Raggamuffins flock about;
Men, Maids, and Children, Dogs and all,
To Celebrate the Festival;

102

So were they here assembled from
Each Corner of the Nation; some
Of every Rank, and had the Rogues
A Thousand merry gay

Sports.

Gamshogues.
The Old Men play'd at Blindman-Buff,
Some Roast Pottados, some grind Snuff:
At five Cards some, some wipe out scores
At One and Thirty, and All-Fours.
The Priests that Lodge upon this Common,
Do play at Irish, and Bac-Gammon;
For Prayers, for Kisses, and for Beads,
For Masses, and for Maiden-heads:
The Lay-men Box, and Fight, and Wrestle;
And some make Ropes of Twisted

Gads.

Hasle.
Some Trip a Dance upon the Grass,
And every

Bore.

Culleen has his Lass:

103

All Excercised, great and small,
All at some Game, and some at all:
For all were Gentlemen that play'd,
Not any one that had a

Teague a Trade! Il-lil lil-loo.

Trade.
E're in Mechanicks Teague wou'd Toil,
He'd run for sixpence forty Mile.

There was O Threicy, with Old Darcy,
Playing all Weathers at the Clarsey:
The Irish Harp, whose rusty Mettle,
Sounds like the patching of a Kettle.

Margery Cree

Mageen, yea, and be he cou'd play,
Lilly-Boleer, Bulleen a la;
Skipping of

Towns in Fingaul.

Gort, tripping of Swords,
Frisk of Baldoil best he affords:
And for Variety Cronaans,
Ports

Lessons,

and Portrinkes,

Jiggs

and Strin-kans.

104

They had no Anthems for to Chuse,
Their Hallelujes, were Hull-lil-loos:
And so as merry as the day
Is long, they past the Time away:

Limbus Heroium.

Here did the Antient Heroes grace
The Warriers of former days.

Sons of Miletus.

Heber, and Hereman,

Son of Heremon.

Nynvillagh,

de Danam, 3d. Conqueror of Ireland, he overcame Fervolg, and 100000 men in one Battle.

Twathy de Dane, and

Neil of the Nine Hostages of 9 Kingdoms.

Neil, Noyhillagh,

Son of Fin-Mac-Heul.

Eoghy O Finn, and

A famous Giant.

Cahir Moro,

Con Kedcagh, so called from 100 Battels he fought.

Con Kedcagh, yea and

Bryan Boro, more famous than all his Predecessors.

Bryan Boro,

Miletus, Father of Heberbane, first Inhabitant of Ireland; whence the Irish are called Clonne Mile. Toby O Flannagan Moulin, and Mulrony, O Mulconry.

And great O Mile, that was the first
Of all our Nation, here was thrust:

105

Was Nees great Wonder make on a'me,
To see the Rebels look so tame.
Stalking about the Bogs and Moors,
Together with their Dogs and Whores;
Without a Rag, Trouses, or Brogues,
Picking of Sorrel and Sham-rogues:
Their war-like Horses grazing round about,
And bloody Clubs fixt in the Ground about;
That fertile Ground, where the tall Grass
Did grow too fast upon the Place,
Should you o're Night a Gelding turn in,
You'd hardly find him the next Morning:
For whatsoe're they fancy'd most,
Thieving or War, the

Little.

donny Ghost,
Now they were dead, with the same Vigour,
Did imitate in Mood and Figure.

106

Shela, as soon as she espy'd
The Men and Horses by their side,
Did swear she wou'd be after riding,
And strait did mount the Saddle striding:
Her Mill-posts, one, on either side
In Gad, for Stirrup, she had ty'd.
On t'other side a Rope

Straw.

Suggain,
With Girt and Hoosings o're the Main;
Bridle and Crupper too, where Nees
Was got behind with bended Knees;
Digging i'th' Flank, with a

Thorn.

Spologue,
In place of Spurs, stuck in his Brogue:
Tho all that they cou'd do, cou'd not
Put Dapple out of wonted Trot;
For tho from hence they sought relief,
Yet was the Jade not very

Swift. Blind.

brief,
Nor very sure; for she was bleend,
And lame of the fore-Leg beheend;

107

The better sure for that Disaster,
Who cou'd not over-run her Master;
And for her being Blind, they say,
She had less blame to lose her way:
T'her Feet sh'ad neither Shoes nor Clogs,
The fitter then to trot the Bogs:
Nor one Tooth left, she was so old,
For that the wiser Nees was told.
And glad he was, amongst the Colts,
To take the Jade with all her Faults.
In such an unfrequented Coast,
Who gain'd some way by riding Post.
Till the base Jade did let a Fart,
Which made 'em light, and Cursing, part.

To the next Limbo Nees did pack,
Bearing his Saddle on his back;
Cursing by Candle, Book, and Bell,
The Mare was glad she scap'd so well;

108

For now a brace of Beggars mounted,
To make the Proverb good, she counted;
And hardly thought they'd been so civil,
But rid directly to the Devil.

Here round about the Mountain-Hogs,
He saw them wallowing in the Bogs;
Some at the Irish-Trot, some pacing,
And some were with the Beasts a grazing:
They drank a Health to th'Nations Glory,
Singing old Rose, and Tory Rory:
With Rhimes, Cronaans, and many a gay Trick
In Adoration of Saint Patrick.
Here all that fought in Vindication
Of Shamrog-shire, made Habitation.
The Champions of the Irish Cause,
A numerous Train of Mac's and O's,

109

Whom the Monsieur, by treacherous Art,
Had cram'd into this Malapert.
Here Chaster Priests, and Fryars truckle,
Who never made Confessant Cuckold:
With Rimers here, had their Abodes;
And Bards, who made their Patrons Gods,
Where every one had on his Brow
A Lawrell made of twisted Straw;

Suggane.

Shela, (that now had got amongst 'em,
And to be gone, thinking it longson,)
Crys out, upon the sudden, you Rogues,
Where is this Fellow, Goodmen two Brogues?
She ask'd them round the Square with Nees,
Where is this Guddihang, Anchees?
But of

Son to great Ossin, who was Son to Fin-Mac-Heul. His Stature was 145 Cupids, if you will believe O Flannagan, O Sullevan, Mulrony Collonan, and the rest of their Authentick Legenders.

Mack-Muse, above the Rest,
Exalted by the Head and Crest.

110

To' his Stature, out of meer Regard,
Made Captain of the Sable Guard.

Nees, who with Gazing lost his Eyes,
Thought him the fittest, to Advice:
Till Shela, who was most intent,
Thus past her Cloyster Complement.
I prethee Joy, if thou hast Leasure,
I beg thou wilt do me the Pleasure,
To do the Grace, to do the Favour,
To do the Kindness, for this Knave here,
That we may see Anchees; the Lad
Came only here to see his Dad.
Since Soldiering will do no Grace,
To get in Hell, an Evidence-Place;
For his time moves, on Rusty Wheels,
Much in the Elbows, out at Heels:

111

Which Loss his Highness wou'd Repair,
By having Liberty to Swear;
And thou wilt much oblige poor Nees,
To shew him to the Plot-Of-fice:
This favour Nees, and Shela Begs,
For we are weary of our Legs.
To which the tall Red-Beard Reply'd,

Clove Derg Carret-pate.

Dear Joy, Thou comes on the Blind-side;
For we have neither House nor Home,
Nor any thing, to call our Own:
But live like Flies, in Bogs and Bushes,
And make our Beds on Banks of Rushes.
Or at the Fire-side, where we
Ly all, Hickelty-Pickelty.
Nor has the most Notorious Tory,
T'his humble Crate, one single Story:

112

Garret nor Stare-case (which is Sadder)
To Climb up, on an

A pair of Stairs.

English Ladder;
Where one low Gate to the first Floor,
Serves both for Chimney, and for Door:

Dis is so like our Shamrog-sheer,
Says Nees, Dou art my own Bro-deer.
Sheet on de Hous vid two three Story,
Give me de Vood for Tief and Tory;
And be is Nees tink dis more Comely,
For Home is Home, tho' nere so Homely:
Cou'd I but see de Old

Bore.

Sculloge,
Tho' he had neider Trous nor Brogue;
But cast an Eye upon de Elf,
Vhile my own Eye is vid my self;
Let Nees be

Beat.

frapt, and suffer Rack,
Be

Cut to peices.

Spleee'd to Spoles, and damn'd as Black
As

Next the Heart, nearest the Mouth,

Butter-milk, if ere I mean
To Stray so far from Home again.

113

Nay, if your longing be so great,
Mac-Muse, you shall no more intreat;
Stride up with me this tall Moun-tain,
And I will put you in the Lane:
Thus said, the Neighbouring-Fields he shows,
Bidding them follow on their Nose;
And that wou'd lead'em to the Place,
Where they might soon behold his Grace.

Nees, glad to hear o'th' Old Scull-oge,
Did kiss his

Thumb.

Tumb, and

Made a Legg.

scrape a Brogue;
Which done, scarce had he star'd about,
When, as he said, it so fell out:
Here Musing lay Anchees the Guddi-
hang of a King, in a brown Studdy.

114

In a green-Arbour, reaping all
His Kit, and Kin, both great and small;
Their Hanging, and unlucky Fate,
Were Maggots of his doating Pate:
And their high Breeding, from the Fountains
Of Art, the Woods, and Boggs and Mountains.
But when he saw the Couple Posting,
Throw the Green-Meddows to accost 'him;
Clapping his hands, set up the Howl,
For all his Gouts, a Joyfull Soul:
To see 'em Trotting to'ards his Grace,
And to his Legs he got a pace.
Propt on his Staff, came Hops, and Jumps,
Now on his hands, now on his Stumps;

115

And sometimes on all four did leap;
For kind will go, when't cannot creep.
Thus struggling, till at length he laid
His Palsy Hands upon his Head;
But so surpriz'd to see the Mawkin,
He cou'd not speak one word for Talking:
At which a Shower of Tears, as Proof
Of further kindness mixt, with Snuff,
Came Running down his Beard so pleasing,
Which set his Gravity a Sneezing:
At which the Nun did Cross her Face;
And Nees did say, God save his Grace:
This way his Passion finding Vent,
The Youth he thus did Complement.
And art thou come at last my Rogue?
And all to see an Old Sculloge?

116

Art thou alive? see I thy Face,
Is this thy Voice I hear? The Grace
Of thy Diseourse, able to turn
To

Buttermilk.

Bonnaclabber a whole Churn;
I ever thought it wou'd be so Nees,
And now thou'rt better than thy promise:
But prethee, Nees, what part o'th' World
Art thou come from? Whence art thou hurrl'd?
Tell me (my Dear Joy) how goes Squares?
And all the State of thy Affairs?
Lest thou wast Hang'd, I Vow and Swear,
Nees, I was in a pack of Fear.
Whether by French, or Dutch thou fell,
English or Scotch, I cou'd not tell;
And therefore now I beg to tell,
What Wind 'twas drove thee into Hell.

117

Good bless dee, Fader: Vill dou hear me,
I'll tell it fat vas bring it dere me?
Is dis vas make me in dis Place,
Only to see dy own sweet Face:
De Fleet on Curragh of Kilmore,
Burnt by de Scotch upon de Shore.

But now (Dear Joy) my own Fa-deer,
Since me have met so lucky here;
Give me dy Paw, and let us shake
Our Hands, for old Acquaintance sake:
So taking Snuff, he made wry Faces,
And both together wept their Graces.
Here Nees, with gentle Shoulder Shrug,
Began to give the Irish-Hug.

118

Thrice did he fold his longing Arms,
Thrice he in vain bestow'd his Charms;
For the pale Ghost, without more ado,
Did vanish like an empty Shadow;
And flew as swift as any Bat,
Before an Ear cou'd lick her Cat.
Here in his Complement he faulter'd;
For with Anchees the Case was alter'd;
And tho' he was his next a Kin,
What but the Cat can ye have o'th' Skin.
Nees, in the mean, espi'd a Wood,
That with a Bog surrounded stood;
Planted with Pallaces of Pleasure,
And Orchards rich with Irish-Treasure;
Garlick, and Leeks, Pottado-Roots,
With Bilberrys, and Hasle-Nuts.

119

Incompass'd with a River, where
All Folks resorted far and near.

Have you beheld, when people pray
At Saint John's Well on Patron-day,

In the North.

By Charm of Priest and Miracle,
To cure Diseases at this Well,
The Valleys fill'd with Blind and Lame,
And go as Limping as they came:
Just so this Raggamuffin Rout,
(Flocking an hundred Miles about)
From every Pole and Chantlet run,
As thick as Atoms in the Sun.

The Prince at this began to stammer,
And could not rest, the Ninnihammer,
Until he knew a Reason why
Those Troops about the Banks did ly;

120

And till Anchyses did deliver
All the deep Mysteries of the River.
Have you not heard of such a Man,
(Says he) cou'd turn the Cat in Pan?
That cou'd, to his Immortal Glory,
Transform a Whig into a Tory?
A Favourite make of a King-hater,
And form a Jesuit of a Quaker?
That valu'd not his Friends to lose 'em,
And hug'd the Vipers in his Bosom:
Cou'd turn a Monarch to a Mouse,
Transform a Taylor to a Louse:
And turn a Nation out of door,
And turn himself out of Three more:
That cou'd a Bullet, at his like,
Anabaptize into a Pike;

121

Transform a Buzzard to a Bird,
And turn a Custard to a T---
And Wine to Water, (some say Piss,)
And all by Metemseuchosis.

O-o-ogh (says Nees) And be, I fear me;
(I tink) dou'rt after ask to jear me.

Hast thou not heard, thou simple Ass,
Says he, of Old Pythagoras?

And be, not I in all my Loes,
I'le chance upon him for a Teef:
Fere shou'd I hear of him, I tro,
He was not born at Lusk—
—Oh! no:
But if thou wilt forbear thy Blunder,
I will unriddle all the Wonder.
Those Granadeers, that flock about
From Hill to Plain since the last Rout,

122

The bloody Rout in

London-Derry.

Derry Battle,
Drink Daries dry, and stroke the Cattle;
Steal Sucklings, and thro' Key-holes sling,
Topeing, and dancing in a Ring;
Of Lethe take so large a Douse,
And long Oblivion-Cups Carouze.
Eternal Imps, that drink and sot,
Till what they Are they have forgot:
Their former Notions gone, the Fairies
Transform to Rats and Mice in Dairies;
As if this Body he should force
To be transform'd into a Horse.
I'm not thy Father as I was,
But an irrational dull Ass;
A very Mungrel of a Stallion,
A Metamorphosed Fingallion.

This I thought good to tell thee first,
That thou may'st know the Devil's just.

123

Now to our Race, that thou may'st more
Rejoyce, when all the Mischief's o're.

Thus said, unto a Mount his Son
He leads, together with the Nun.
Where all the Woods and Valleys rung on'em,
And plac'd him in the very throng on'em:
That every one might flock to see,
And know what News in Tripoly.
Now to't, my Son, now comes the Story
Of all thy Race, thy Nations Glory:
The Kings that did, and hence shall shine,
Descended from Mac Heber's Line;
I'le read in History a short one,
And eke declare thee all thy Fortune.

124

That Tory-Knave, cast but thy Eye on,
(Fierce as a Wolf, bold as a Lyon)
That leans upon his bloody Lance,
He is the first begins the Dance:
And by a Massacre shall rise out,
To feed the Crows, shall pick his Eyes out;

Phelim O Neal.

Phelim the Kern, began the Wars,
Descended from the Highlanders;
Born and bred up amongst the Woods,
And savage as the Mountain Studs:
By Lavin spawnd amongst the Bogs,
To be a Rogue from Race of Rogues.

De Burgo.

The next deserves our Commendation,
Is Bork, the Glory of our Nation;
And young Enees, Mac Nees, the same
Enees, that shall Restore thy Name:

125

The Wood-kern, Nees, (whom I'le maintain) as
Egregious a Rogue in grain, as
Is Nees himself, and, let me tell you,
Will make as terrible a Fellow;
If he to get can once prevail
A Foot within the English Pale;
The Desperado's how they run!
And tempt the Fates to be undone!
And tho' they've scarce an Ounce of Snuff,
Yet will the Bully Ruffins huff.
But those you see so richly drest,
With Civil Horns upon their Crest;
The Cuckold's Wreath, shall Crown 'em then,
Are Citizens and Aldermen:
With States-men, Chancellors, and Judges,

Fitton, Nangle, &c.

On purpose chose to be our Drudges:
Who Laws and Statutes shall Invent,
To work an Irish Settlement.

126

But e're a total Restauration
Do heal the Ruptures of this Nation;
In Britain shall a Monarch Reign,
Will bring this Nation to the Wain;
Whom Ilia shall in England bear,
That shall extend his Scepter here:
Who (by a Usurpation bold,)

Oliver Crom.

Shall lose his Land. Behold, behold,
A double Crown Impales his Brow,
Who was both King and Prophet too:
In Heaven, whom Almighty Jove,
Shall honour with a Crown above:
Who shall bequeath unto his Son,
The Power of this Dominion;

127

In Moats and Walls, enclosing then

Cork-bill, Cock-hill. St. Nicholas and Paulgate, Conduit-Hill, and the two Hills of Keisers, and School-house Lane.

Seven Hills, possest with valiant men;
As Virgin-Lady Crown'd does ride,
Thro' Dublin-City, by whose side
An hundred Gods, for Lackeys run,
Lackeys, for

They were Irish.

Trades these Gods had none.
Their chiefest work shall be their Sport,
To breed Dissention at the Court;
Where they shall never cease to flock,
Till they have brought his Head to'th' Block.

Thus shall he fall, and to his Son
He shall bequeath an empty Throne:
Which e're he fills, must banisht, Toyl,
For Laurels in a Foreign Soyl:

128

Thence, with Majestick Glory born,
With greater Triumph shall return;
Whose Restauration-Day, the Head
Of Rump and Regicides do dread:
And though poor Ireland hopes in vain,
'Twill ne're be Ours, while He does Reign.
A Court of Claiming he shall call,
Poor Teague again is out of All:
His Claim rejected, and his Lands
Restor'd into the English hands.
Nor dare a Nocent-Rebel once stir,
In Ulster, Connaught, Mead, or Munster;
The Irish Glory so departed,
And poor Enees so quite dead-hearted;
That he has hardly left a Groat,
To pay for cutting English-Throat.

129

The Hereticks shall sit at helm,
And rule (while he does Reign) the Realm;
Shall bear on Breast the Royal Stamp,
All Offices in Court and Camp.
So that poor Nees shall not be able,
To put in for a Cones-table:
But still to make his own Life easie,
He shall do all he can to please ye;
Who was, had he Teagues Cause maintain'd,
The best of Kings that ever Reign'd.

He dead, his Brother mounts the Throne,
And once more Ireland is our own.
He Petre now shall bear the sway,
And Popery shall come in play:
He shall new model all the Nation,
From College unto Corporation:

130

To former plight he shall transplant us,
By Mandats, Briefs, and Quo Warranto's.
Gospel and Law shall trample o're,
By a Supreme-Dispensing Power:
If any jealous Lord oppose it,
Shall purge in Inquisition Closet;
And by his Will, which is his Law,
Shall keep the Hereticks in awe:
In spite of Law, shall do his best
To take off Penal, and the Test;
And for the Freedom of our Nation,
Shall make an Act of Toleration;
Where all may have their Liberty
To go to Hell as well as Thee.
Shall turn the Nobles in disgrace,
For Teague and Rory to make place;
Turning, (Ill omen of his Fall)
'Till he himself turn out of all:

131

Of Promise-making-Kings the best,
Till over-ridden by the Priest;
Which turn'd the Helm into a

Helm.

Paddle
And threw great James out of the Saddle.
Wonders shall Chronicle his Reign,
A Wilderness shall cross the Main.
The Belgick-Lyon then shall keep
From Roman Wolf the abandon'd Sheep.
A Sun shall rise up in the West,
That over-cast shall set i'th' East;
Deserted by his chief Commanders,
Frighted with Bear-skins, and Fin-landers;
Shall, with the scampering Court withdrawn,
Leave there an Abdicated Throne:
When he has fixt his French Intrigue,
Shall for protection fly to Teague:
Where French and Irish Officers
Shall fall together by the ears.

132

Monsieur shall fight, his Own to hold;
Teague, to retrieve his Country sold:
Till Frog and Mouse in bloody wrath,
The Stork shall come and swallow both:
The Belgian Stork without a stroke,
(That Nests within the Royal Oak,)
Shall drive the Locust from our shore,
And name of Nees shall be no more.

But now our Forces overthrown,
And Nees, with Abdicated, flown;
On a new Sun fix both thine Eyes,
Exalted in the British Skies:
Who timely through the Tempest broke,
An Orange grafted on the Oke.
Whose Juice the English Hearts shall cheer,
And shall diffuse it's Vertue here;

133

Destroying Popish Priests and Steeple,
And worst of Vermin here, the People:
Where ere an Orange comes in place,
Poor Nees shall make a sowre Face:
In's Stomach stick, which to the rest
Shall be a Cordial to digest.

This, this is He, the War-like Prince,
Heaven promis'd long in their Defence;
Englands Augustus, who shall be
The Subject of Chronology:
Who, plac'd upon the British Throne,
Shall make poor Nees to sing, O hone!
Sent from Above; who shall restore
The Dagon they so much adore.

134

The Golden Age of Liberty,
From Yoke of Pagan Slavery;
And rescue from th'impending shower
Of Priest, and Arbitrary Power.
His boundless Empire shall advance
From larger Britain over France:
Nor shall the Blacks, or Indian Shore,
Set Limits to his Naval Power.

Beyond the Seas, not far Remote,
There lies a little Lowland Spot;
In Farm from Neptune, which shall be
Of this great Mars the Nursery.
Thence, by a Solemn Invitation,
Shall make a Second Reformation:

135

Who swifter Wing'd than flying Fame,
And silent as the Night he came;
Shall, without noise of Proclamation,
Bring swift Deliverance to that Nation.
Whose Amunition's like white Powder,
Nor are his Publick Triumphs lowder;
Which, wheresoe're the stroaks Rebound,
Does Execution without Sound.
Without a word bring home the Fleece
Of Jason, or a Fleet to Greece.

The Court, and many a Pagan Peer,
With the lost Monarch sculk for fear;
Who bleeds e're he Receives a Wound,
Cares, Doubts, and Jealousies abound:
Proud Modena, from Albion Banisht,
Shall (with her young Impostor vanisht;)

136

Fly o're to France, to Shield her Honour
By Him whose Counsels have undone her.
The Holy Fathers and the Monks,
Shall scour with their Religious Punks;
Their Reliques, Crosses, Cowls and Fringes,
Shall with our Church be off the Hinges:
The Fools, who did not timely scower,
Shall Plot in Newgate, and the Tower.
Nor did Alcide e're undertake
So great a Task for Virtues sake;
Or half so much attempted he
To set a Captive-Nation free,
Tho' the swift Stag he did subdue,
And with his Shaft the Hydra slew.
Nor Bacchus, who joynt Tygers sent
In Chains, from Nysa's steep Descent;

137

And shall we doubt such Vertue lacks
Courage adequat to his Facts?
Or fear diswade the Son of Jove,
His Title to this Land to prove;
Whose Conquest, in dispite of Foes,
(Let Teague and Monsieur Interpose)
This Government shall still retain,
While Kings in British Isles do Raign?

And now behold the petty Kings,
That more remote this story sings;
Who by Invasion, and strong hand,
Shall play the Devil in this Land.

But voe is dat same

Cohil clovederg, Anglice Cohil the Red. K. of Ireland; so says Mulconry; but Mulrony, who is a more Authentick Historian, affirms, it alludes to de Coursey.

Cuckold born,
(Says Nees) whose Head is stuck vid horne?
And be I know de Culleen, fate,
By his Red Beard, and Carret Pate:

138

Must he come in? so great a Rogue?
Then every Day must have his Dog.

This, says Anchyses, is the first,
Shall Laws ordain t'encourage Lust?
Advanc'd a King, the Beggers Brat,
From a small Crate, and Garden-plat.
Who of this Land the lazy Custom
Shall break, and into Arms shall thrust 'em
Those silly Troops, not us'd, God knows,
So oft to Triumphs, as to Blows.
The next of Valour, that gives proof,
Mac-Ancy, a vain-glorious Huff;
A swelling Bladder, since his Death,
Blown with the Wind of popular Breath.

139

Wilt thou the Kings of

Miletus, Father of all the Kings of Ireland; whence the Irish are called Clonna-Mile. Ger. Cambrensis.

Clonna-Mile
Behold, that hence shall rule this Isle;
The haughty mind, and all the Rout
Of the Revengeful,

This is Ed de la Bruce, who in the year of Ed. 2d. stiled himself King of Ireland. Baron Finglus, and Sir John Davis of the State of Ireland.

de La Brute!
The first that shall assume the power,
With Tory Troops the Bogs to scower;
And send an Army of Commanders,
To fight the Britains, and Low-Landers:
Behold the

The Decys, an ancient Family in Ireland; they opposed Tyrone's Rebellion in Munster; and were always Friend; to the English Interest, till now.

Decy's, far and near,
And Drusye's in their Ranks appear;
Mac-Tory-Quat, and Ensign Camill,
With Madoge sharp, to cut off Mamill;
Or strip the Infant from the VVomb,
Lay'd with the Mother in one Tomb:

140

Or spin their Guts out, being bound
First to a Tree, and then whipt round:

The Cruelty committed by the Irish Rebels upon the English.

Nor shall in this their fury cease,
Till they make Candles of their Grease:
Stab, Hang, or Burn'em, Damn, and Curse,
Without Compassion, or Remorse:
In Houses, Churches, or the Roads,
To clear the Land of English Toads;

Upon their Sheep and Cattle.

Shall slay their Sheep, (the Fury Elves,)
And burn their Barnes, to starve themselves:
If but a Cow shall set up Tone
In any Language but our own,
As an Infringement of our Charter,
They shall condemn to present Slaughter.
VVhat Bloody Wars, what Dire Infections?
VVhat Murders, Plots, and Insurrections;

141

Will these men cause, when cross the Ferry,
They bend their Troops to London-Derry?
Sending their fierce Battalions forth,
Against the Rebels in the North?
And then like a swift Inundation,
Threaten the Scot with an Invasion.
Boys! Boys! be not so hot to sin,
And learn to sleep in a whole Skin.
But thou thy Country-men mayst spare,
Was Born thy self in Shamrogshire.
The rest, Nees, throw thy Club at

Their.

'ame,
And make'em run away for shame.

He with his

Hugh buey O Neal.

Provinder and Laggage,
O're top of

Altitudines ultoniæ. Gen Cambren.

Ardes shall draw his Baggage.
That Prodigal so fiercely stood,
In the expence of British Blood.

142

He shall destroy the Norman Race,
And all the English Lords displace.
King ---n himself shall melt his Wings,
The war-like Off-spring of the Kings.
Stout Bl---y too shall feel our Blows,
Those Champions of the English Cause.
Many, with Inch---n, shall fly
To England, for a fresh supply.
Their Goods Sequester'd and their Lands
Restor'd into the Owners hands;
To be reveng'd upon his Pate,
That kept poor Nees from his Estate:
But when they Land at Derry-Bay,
Let Nees expect a bloody day.

Who can forget the Learned

This is Cormack Mac Art, styled, the Cato of Ireland. He writ a Treatise of the Vertues of a Pottado, beyond the Wisdom of Solomon, the Knowledge of Aristotle, the Rhetorick of Cicero. Con. Clerenaugh, and Mureartagh O Collegan.

Cato,
That writ so much on a Pottado;

143

Who cramm'd in every Page four Columns,
Six of Poor Robin's single Volumns.
At the Mac-Graths, who can but wonder,
Or the two Burks, those Sons of Thunder?
With that poor Devil, O Fa---beer,
That base Bastard, and proud Beg-geer.
Or Serany, Son of a Pander,
Rais'd from the Plow to a Commander;
Kickt meerly out of merit up,
From Tail of Horse, to Head of Troop?
Whose famous Deeds recorded may be,
Amongst the Acts of Art Mac Faby:

Donnogh Mac Art Mac Faby.

Who shall retrieve our Ruins best;
Thou art the Man of all the rest.

144

Then clapping hands, as sign of wonder,
Behold (says he) that Son of Thunder,
Tyrconnel, with his Spoils possest,
The bravest King of all the rest.
His Haughtiness bred in the Bogs,
Shall call his Betters, Rogues and Dogs.
From Butchers Bratt, rais'd to a Peer,
To be a K in Shamrogshire.
This Devil shall do that which no Man
Cou'd yet effect, restore the Roman;
And in his time establish Popery,
Which Curse ye Meroz calls a Foppery
Chappels shall up, the Churches down,
And all the Land shall be our own.
He shall secure our Title here,
By a Rebellion in each Sheir,

145

An Army shall Collect the Rent,
Confirm our Rights by Parliament.
The Act of Settlement shall bate,
And Nees shall get his own Estate,
If by the Monsieur not supplanted,
Who for a Sum has Covenanted;
And both their Interests be not lost
By the prevailing British Host.
He shall subdue the Heretick,
To bring in trusty Catholick.
Humble the Peer, Exalt the Peasant,
Without Assize of damage-Feisant.
And shall advance the meanest sort
To highest place of Camp and Court:
All shall be common as before;
No more shall Justices, no more

146

Shall Court of Claims, or Council Table,
Or Formidon, be formidable.
Drink down Excise, know no Committe,
But Routs and Riots in each City;
Cut Throats; in Massacre skill'd well;
And Plunder, tho' it were in Hell.
Thus shall he rule the Rebel Rout,
Till by the Monsieur josled out;
Reduc'd to such a low Condition,
He shan't to Curse have a Commission.
Yet tho' his short insulting be
But a continu'd Tyranny,

Sheridon's plase.

All Articles he shall defie,
And none shall say, black is his Eye.

Mark Tal—his Bastard Son.

But here Enees had now espy'd
A gay young Spark march by his side,

147

In a Blue Scarlet Coat did shine,
And Yellow Trouses, wondrous fine.
He had a Scarf about his Arse,
Edg'd with White Fringe of Yellow Lace:
His Cap with Plume of Feathers set,
Sent from the Pullets of Lorett:
His Wig St. Peter's Hairs did bless,
A Present from his Holiness.
His Crevat, flower'd o're with Snuff,
Made of the Virgin Mary's Ruff;
So finely drest, that you would deem,
'Twould do a Blind-man good to see him.

Dear Joy (says Nees) vho is that Owl,
Valks vid his Fader Cheek by Jowl?
Is it his Son, or Bastard Heir,
Or some gay Irish Officere?

148

Vhat makes 'em all about so busie?
O hone! How like the Fader is he?
And be so like, sure as a Gun,
De Fader is his very Son.

But now the Night, like thickning Smoak
That dwells in Crates, possession took
O'th' Firmament, when he begun,
With weeping, thus t'advise his Son.

Oh Nees, poor Nees, do not importune,
To know thy Countrey-mens misfortune,
That will befal them by Adventurers,
By English, Dutch, and Scotch Debenturers:
Our Lands possest, we put to rout,
By two Brigades of Horse and Foot:

149

Transported some, and some Transplanted,
Whilst the prevailing Party Ranted.
Till he's restor'd, with all his Train:
But here's the Devil on't again;
The Fates will only shew his Reign,
To hope for more, is but in vain.
The Roman Tribe would be too strong,
If this good luck should last too long.
How many Gallant Troops, this Sot
Will he Condemn unto the Pot?
How many fitter to Command,
And Soldiers too, will he Disband?
And carry on the sly Intrigue,
To make a Vacancy for Teague.
And truly, Nees, there's ne'er a one
For us to crack of, when he's gone;

150

Not one, like Him, will e'er appear
Again, to grow in Shamrogeshire.
Ubboo! Ubboo! A Pack of Cards,
The Good Old Faith, which none Regards:
The Shams, the Dice, and wondrous Flight
This Lord will manifest in Fight.
Whither a Donny Musque teer,
Or Guddihang of a Troo-peer.
Not one shall meet him, not a Man,
But he will shun him, if he can.
Now Nees, (poor Boy) had'st thou the Pate
To overcome thy harder Fate;
'Tis Nees alone, 'tis only He,
Tyrconnel, my White Boy shall be.

151

(Il-lil-lil-loo:) My Cramacree,
The hopes of all thy Family:
Bring me a Bunch of Suggane Ropes,
Of Shamroges, and Pottado-Tops:
With Pig-tail, steep'd in Chamber-Lees,
To make a Lawrel for Enees;
With Crevat-string of Wattle-Twist,
Confess thy last unto the Priest:
Lilli-bo-lero, lero sing,
Tyrconnel is no longer K---
So hooting through the Woods, they sate
To light a Pipe at the next Crate;
Dy'd through with Smoak, the spacious Bowl,
Out of meer Providence; kept foul;
When Nees of Funk had ne'er a Corn,
Wou'd, fier'd, like a Chimney burn:

152

The Smoak went round, which they did draw
Thro' supplemental Foot of Straw.
T'enlarge the Head, which lighted shows,
Like a Carbuncle on the Nose;
Left by his Sire, a Legacy,
The Jewel of all the Family.
Last, after he had led his Son
From Crate to Cabbin, with the Nun,
Expecting nothing but to sport on
The hopes of their succeeding Fortune:
He falls again to open War,
But there-withal he does declare;
How to prevent it, where, and when,
He does demonstrate there, and then.

153

In short, it was to run away;
Which laid, he had no more to say.
There are two famous Gates of Sleep,
Through which all Maggot Dreams do creep,
As nimble Hocus, and Hobgoblin,
Thro' Creeks, and Key-holes, use to hobble in.
The first whereof is built of Horn,
Through which all's true, that e're was born:
The other made of Ivory,
The Sally-port of Forgery;
Where it no sooner makes a pother
In one Ear, but goes out at t'other.

154

Through which, when he had led 'em both,
Where (think you) should he let 'em forth,
But at the Horns? A'subtil Mystery,
To ratifie our present History.

The Dream being out, they dropt a Mass,
And parted at Peg-Trantom's Pass.
The old Man he return'd to Hell,
And Shela, to Inchanted Cell;

Vice-comes a Purgatorio reddit. O Sullevan.

And Nees got under him his Feet,
To view his Soldiers in the Fleet:
Who, glad to see his Grace Restor'd,
With Hil-lil-loo's the Harbour roar'd;
For to the Devil Nees was gone,
And left his Men a Roguing on.

155

Some to the Sign o'th'

Mare-maid.

Woman, sail,
With the Fish growing at her Tail.
Some the

Unicorn.

Garrane, their Lodging made,
With Barber's-pole upon his Head:
Others, at the next Sign below,
O'th'

Sarazens-Head.

Irish-man, y-crying O-o-o-h!
But Nees, who had the Noblest place,
Lodg'd at the Sign of the

The Globe.

Ca-bash;
The only House; (and 'twas a wonder,
Although in Hell) that scap'd their Plunder.

Nees, with his Torys, now so gay,
Directs his Course to Dublin-Bay;
But finding there, that things went so
(Manag'd by a worse Devil,

Devaux.

Devo;)
He chose, depriv'd of all his Glory,
To Scamper back to Purgatory.

156

The Anchor ty'd with Cord of VVood,
He strait-way cast into the Mud;
Resolving thence to Travel by Land,
And all the Cotts did ride on dry Land.