Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn :: :: University of Virginia Library

King Stephen was a worthy peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown,
He held them sixpence all too dear,
And so he call'd the tailor loon.
He was a king, and wore a crown,
Thou art a squire of low degree;
'Tis pride that pulls the country down,
So take thy old cloak about thee.

II. VERSES OF JULY THE FIRST, THE GREAT ORANGE SONG IN IRELAND.

July the first, in old Bridge town,
There was a grievous battle,—

Where many a man lay on the ground,
And the cannon they did rattle.
King James, he pitch'd his tents between,
His lines for to retire,
But William threw his bomb-balls in,
And set them all on fire.

The horse and cannon cross'd the stream,
And the foot came following a'ter,
But brave Duke Schomberg lost his life
In crossing the Boyne Water.

A bullet from the Irish came,
And grazed King William's arm—
They thought his majesty was slain,
But it did him little harm.

The Protestants of Drogheda
Have reason to be thankful,
That they were all preserved that day,
Though they were but a handful.

III. GROVES OF BLARNEY.

The groves of Blarney they are most charming—
Blarnæi nemora sunt jucundissima visu.

'Tis lady Jeffries, that owns this station,
Like Alexander or Helen fair;
There is no lady in all the nation
For emulation can with her compare.
She has castles round her, that no nine-pounder
Can dare to plunder her place of strength,
But Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel,
And made a hole in her battlement.

IV. VERSE OF MARY AMBREE.

When our brave commanders, whom death could not daunt,
March'd off to the siege of the city of Gaunt;
They counted their forces by two and by three,
But the foremost in battle was Mary Ambree.

V. VERSE OF SIR TRISTREM.

[_]

[I have translated the entire poem.]

Geten and born was so,
The child was fair and white,
Nas never Rohand so wo,
He wist not what to wite;
To childbed ded he go,
His owhen wiif al so tite,
Said he had children to,
On hem was his delite,
Bi Crist,
In court men cleped him so,
Tho Tram bifor the Trist.

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VI. ON SIR P. SARSFIELD.

Oh! Patrick Sarsfield, Ireland's wonder,
Who fought in field like any thunder,
One of King James's chief commanders,
Now lies the food of crows in Flanders.
Ohone!

VII. ON JOHN, DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.

By Doctor Evans.

Here lies John, Duke of Marlborough,
Who ran the Frenchman thorough and thorough;
Married Sarah Jennings, spinster,
Died in Saint James's, and was buried in Westminster.

VIII. CONCLUSION OF THE EPITAPH ON HENRY, DUKE OF GRAFTON, SON OF CHARLES II. KILLED AT THE SIEGE OF CORK, 1690.

Yet a bullet of Cork
It did his work,

101

Unhappy pellet!
With grief I tell it,
It has undone
Great Cæsar's son!
A statesman's spoil'd;
A soldier foil'd;
God rot him
Who shot him,—
A son of a—,
I say no more.
Here lies Henry, the Duke of Grafton!

IX. ON ROBIN HOOD.

Underneath this little stone,
Lies Robert, Earl of Huntingdon;
He was in truth an archer good,
And people call'd him Robin Hood.
Such outlaws as he and his men
England never will see again.

102

X. ON SIR DANIEL DONNELLY, C. I.

Underneath this pillar high,
Lies Sir Daniel Donnelly;
He was a stout and handy man,
And people call'd him buffing Dan.
Knighthood he took from George's sword,
And well he wore it by my word!
He died at last, from forty-seven
Tumblers of punch he drank one even.
O'erthrown by punch, unharm'd by fist,
He died unbeaten pugilist.
Such a buffer as Donnelly,
Ireland never again will see.