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

A fig for St. Dennis of France,
He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St. George and his lance,
Which spitted a heathenish dragon;
And the Saints of the Welshman or Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,
Compared with the patron of swipers,
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

2

He came to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steam-boat he beat to a mile,
Which mighty good sailing was counted:
Says he, “The salt water, I think,
Has made me most bloodily thirsty,
So bring me a flagon of drink,
To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye,
Of drink that is fit for a saint.”

3

He preach'd then with wonderful force,
The ignorant natives a-teaching;
With a pint he wash'd down his discourse,
“For,” says he, “I detest your dry preaching.”
The people, with wonderment struck,

109

At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaim'd “We're for you, my old buck,
And we pitch our blind gods to the devil,
Who dwells in hot water below.”

4

This ended, our worshipful spoon
Went to visit an elegant fellow,
Whose practice each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightfully mellow.
That day, with a black jack of beer,
It chanced he was treating a party;
Says the saint, “This good day, do you hear,
I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty,
So give me a pull at the pot.”

5

The pewter he lifted in sport,
(Believe me, I tell you no fable,)
A gallon he drank from the quart,
And then planted it full on the table.
“A miracle!” every one said,
And they all took a haul at the stingo;
They were capital hands at the trade,
And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo!
The pot still frothed over the brim.

6

Next day quoth his host, “'Tis a fast,
But I've nought in my larder but mutton,
And on Fridays who'd make such repast,
Except an unchristian-like glutton?”
Says Pat, “Cease your nonsense, I beg,
What you tell me is nothing but gammon;
Take my compliments down to the leg,
And bid it come hither a salmon!”
And the leg most politely complied.

7

You've heard, I suppose, long ago,
How the snakes in a manner most antic,
He march'd to the county Mayo,
And trundled them into th' Atlantic.
Hence not to use water for drink
The people of Ireland determine;
With mighty good reason, I think,
Since St. Patrick has fill'd it with vermin,
And vipers, and other such stuff.

110

8

O! he was an elegant blade,
As you'd meet from Fair Head to Kilcrumper,
And though under the sod he is laid,
Yet here goes his health in a bumper!
I wish he was here, that my glass
He might by art magic replenish;
But as he is not, why, alas!
My ditty must come to a finish—
Because all the liquor is out!

Song II. LAMENT OF A CONNAUGHT RANGER.

[_]

Air.—Lamentation over Sir Dan.

1

I wish to St. Patrick we had a new war,
I'd not care who 'twas with, nor what it was for:
With the French, or the Yankees—or, better again,
With the yellow Mulattoes of Lisbon or Spain!

2

My heart is half broke when I think of the fun
We had before Boney, poor fellow, was done;
Oh! 'twas I who was sore when I heard he was dead,
For I thought on the days when he got me good bread.

3

When he, who, God rest him! was never afraid,
Sir Thomas, commanded the Fighting Brigade;

111

And the Rangers of Connaught—to see them was life—
Made game of the Frenchmen, and gave them the knife.

4

When abroad and at home we had sport and content—
Who cared then a damn for tithe, taxes, or rent?
When each dashing fine fellow who wish'd to enlist,
Might be off to the wars with his gun in his fist.

5

Now the landlord is bother'd, and tenant bereft—
The soldier's discharged,—and the sailor adrift,—
Half-pays to our captains poor living afford,
And the Duke is no more than a Government Lord!

6

And our active light-bobs, and our bold grenadiers,
Must dirty their fingers with plough, loom, or shears;
Or if, just out of fun, we would venture a snap
At no more than a proctor, we're thrown into trap.

7

So bad luck to the minute that brought us the peace,
For it almost has ground the nose out of our face;
And I wish to St. Patrick we had a new war,
Och! no matter with whom, no, nor what it is for!

Song III. RAFFERTY'S ADVICE.

[_]

Air.—Limerick Glove.

112

1

When you go courting a neat or a dainty lass,
Don't you be sighing or ready to faint, alas!
Little she'd care for such pluckless philandering,
And to Old Nick she would send you a wandering.
But, you thief, you rogue, you rapparee!
Arrah, have at her like Paddy O'Rafferty.

2

Tip her the wink, and take hold of the fist of her;
Kiss her before she'd have time to say Christopher;
She may cry out, “You're an impudent fellow, sir!”
But her eye will unsay what her tongue it may tell you, sir.
Oh, you thief, you rogue, you rapparee,
You're a devil of a fellow, Paddy O'Rafferty.

3

Give her another, or rather a score of 'em,
Still you will find her ready for more of 'em;
Press her, caress her, my dear, like a stylish man,
For that is the way to go court like an Irishman.
Oh, you, &c.

4

Pitch to the devil sighings and “well-a-days,”
Oglings and singing of piperly melodies;
When in your arms you fairly have got her, sir,
Her heart it will melt like a lump of fresh butter, sir!
Oh, you, &c.

5

Oh, the dear creatures—sure I am kill'd with 'em!
My heart, was it big as the sea, would be fill'd with 'em;
Far have I truff'd it, and surely where'er I went,
'Twas with the girls I had fun and merriment.
Oh, you thief, you rogue, you rapparee,
You're a devil of a fellow, Paddy O'Rafferty.

113

Song IV. THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS.

[_]

Tune—Groves of the Pool.

1

Jerry Mahony, arrah, my jewel, come, let us be off to the fair,
For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be there;
Says they, “The whole Mahony faction we'll banish 'em out clear and clean.”
But it never was yet in their breeches, their bullaboo words to maintain.

2

There's Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,
'Twould make your mouth water to see him, just giving a bit of a stroke;
There's Corney, the bandy-legg'd tailor, a boy of the true sort of stuff,
Who'd fight though the black blood was flowing like buttermilk out of his buff.

3

There's broken-nos'd Bat from the mountain—last week he burst out of the jail,
And Murty the beautiful Tory, who'd scorn in a row to turn tail;

114

Bloody Bill will be there like a darling, and Jerry, och! let him alone,
For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone.

4

And Tim, who serv'd in the militia, his bayonet has stuck on a pole;
Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order, a neat sort of tool on the whole;
A cudgel, I see, is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail;
But I think that a man is more handy, who fights, as I do, with a flail.

5

We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by elegant men,
Who batter'd the Donovans often, and now will go do it again;
To-day we will teach them some manners, and show that, in spite of their talk,
We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the walk.

6

After cutting out work for the sexton, by smashing a dozen or so,
We'll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery's go;
In gallons we'll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry day;
When must'ring again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.

Song V. A REAL IRISH “FLY NOT YET.”

[_]

[Tune—Lillibullero. Time, four o'clock in the morning, or thereabouts.]

115

1

Hark! hark! from below,
The rascally row
Of watchmen, in chorus, bawling “Four!”
But spite of their noise,
My rollocking boys!
We'll stay till we've emptied one bottle more.

Chorus.

Bumpers—bumpers—flowing bumpers!
Bumper your glasses high up to the brim!
And he who is talking
A word about walking,
Out of the window at once with him!

2

Our whiskey is good,
As ever yet stood,
Steaming on table from glass or pot:
It came from a still,
Snug under a hill,
Where the eye of the gauger saw it not.

Bumpers, &c.

3

Then why should we run
Away from the sun—
Here's to his health, my own elegant men!
We drank to his rest
Last night in the west,
And we'll welcome him now that he wakes again.

Bumpers, &c.

4

And here we shall stop,
Until every drop,
That charges our bottles, is gone, clean gone;

116

And then, sallying out,
We'll leather the rout,
Who've dared to remind us how time has run.

Bumpers, &c.

Song VI. THE IMPASSIONED WAVE.

[_]

[Tune—“Thomon um Though.”]

1

'Tis sweet upon the impassion'd wave
To hear the voice of music stealing,
And while the dark winds wildly rave,
To catch the genuine soul of feeling!

117

While all around, the ether blue
Its dim, majestic beam is shedding,
And roseate tints of heavenly hue
Are through the midnight darkness spreading!

2

So is it when the thrill of love
Through every burning pulse is flowing;
And like the foliage of the grove,
A holy light on all bestowing!
O! never from this fever'd heart
Shall dreams on wings of gold be flying;
But e'en when life itself shall part,
I'll think on thee, sweet maid, though dying!

3

'Twas thus, upon the mountain's height,
Young Dermod sung his plaint of sorrow,
Regardless of the evening light,
That ushers in the gay to-morrow!
For love had of his cheek bereft
That smile—that glow—of joyous gladness,
And sympathy's cold sting had left
Nought there—but pale and gloomy sadness!