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

As I was sitting on the Shannon side,
Lull'd by the sound of that majestic flood,
A horseman on a sudden I espied,
Galloping by as quickly as he could;
I hail'd him, but he slacken'd not his pace,
Still urging on his steed, a gallant gray,
Until he passed me, then he turned his face,
Back towards his horse's tail, and thus did say,—
“I ride express with news to strike you dumb,
Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth is come!”

2

Which leaveth him in ane awkward doldrum, after the manner of W. Wordsworth, Esq.

He scarce had spoken, ere away he pass'd
Out of my sight as rapid as a bird,
And left me there in much amazement cast,
Looking, perhaps, in some degree absurd;
The noble river rolling calmly by,
The horse, the hasty rider, all did seem,
Even to the vision of my outward eye,
Like the thin shadowy figments of a dream;
I felt, in short, as Wordsworth did, when he
Chanced the leech gatherer on the moor all by himself to see.

3

Shaketh it off, and marcheth homewards.

By the exertion of judicious thought,
At last I from this mental trance awoke,
Marvelling much how in that lonely spot,
Upon my eyes so strange a vision broke;
From the green bank immediately I went,
And into Limerick's ancient city sped;

165

During my walk, with puzzled wonderment
I thought on what the rapid horseman said;
And, as is commonly the case, when I
Feel any way oppress'd in thought, it made me very dry.

4

When I arrived in brick-built George's-street,

Turneth star-gazer.

Instinctively I there put forth my hand
To where a bottle, stored with liquid sweet,
Did all upon an oaken table stand;
Then turning up my little finger strait,
I gazed like Doctor Brinkley on the sky,
Whence heavenly thought I caught—pure and elate
Of holy harpings of deep poesy;
And, ere a moment its brief flight could wing,
I threw the empty bottle down, to chant about the King.

Ode.

1

A very glorious day this is indeed!

He calleth upon Ireland to rejoice in the fashion of a pot of porter.

This is indeed a very glorious day!
For now our gracious monarch will proceed
On Irish ground his royal foot to lay.
Rejoice, then, O my country, in a tide
Of buoyant, foaming, overflowing glee;
As swells the porter o'er the gallon's side,
So let your joy swell up as jovially;
Shout, great and little people, all and some,
Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!

2

Come down, the mountains, bend your numbsculls low,

Inviteth the mountains to ane saraband.

Ye little hills run capering to the shore,
Now on your marrow bones, all in a row,
From all your caves a royal welcome roar.
Howth is already at the water-side,
Such is that loyal mountain's duteous haste;
Come then to join him, come with giant stride,
Come, I repeat, there's little time to waste;
In your best suits of green depart from home,
For now our monarch has arrived—King George the Fourth has come!

166

3

Makéth them ane catalogue most musical.

Down should despatch Morne's snowy-vested peaks,
And Tipperary, Knocksheogowna's hill,
Kerry, the great Macgillycuddy's reeks,
Cork, the Galtees, studded with many a still,
Gallop from Wicklow, Sugarloaf the sweet!
From Wexford, bloody Vinegar the sour!
Croagh must be there, from whose conspicuous seat
St. Patrick made the snakes from Ireland scour,—
All, all should march, tramp off to beat of drum,
For now our monarch has arrived—King George the Fourth has come!

4

A word of advice to the rivers, in the style of Master Edmund Spenser, late of Kilcolman.

Rivers, dear rivers, in meandering roll,
Move to your Sovereign merrily along;
Ye whom the mighty minstrel of old Mole
Has all embalmed in his enchanting song;
Liffey shall be your spokesman, roaring forth
A very neat Address from either Bull,
While all the rest of you, from south to north,
Shall flow around in currents deep and full,
Murmuring beneath your periwigs of foam—
“Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!”

5

Anent lakes.

Killarney sulkily remains behind,
Thinking the King should come to wait on her;
And if he wont, she swears with sturdy mind,

167

That not one step to visit him she'll stir.
But all the other loughs, where'er they be,
From mighty Neagh, the stone-begetting lake,
To Corrib, Swilly, Gara, Dearg, or Rea,
Or Googaun-Barra, when the Lee doth take
Its lovely course, join in the general hum—
“Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!”

6

O ye blest bogs, true sons of Irish soil,

Lealty of the bogs.

How can I e'er your loyal zeal express?
You have already risen, despising toil,
And travell'd up, your Sovereign to address.
Clara has led the way, immortal bog,
Now Killmalady follows in his train;
Allen himself must soon to join them jog
From Geashil barony, with might and main,
In turfy thunders, shouting as they roam,
“Our Sovereign has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!”

7

Ha! what's this woful thumping that I hear?

Ane caution to the Giant's Causeway not to tread upon the learned weavers of Belfast.

Oh! 'tis the Giant's Causeway moving on,
Heavily pacing, with a solemn cheer,
On clumsy hoofs of basalt octagon.
(Gigantic wanderer! lighter be your tramp,
Or you may press our luckless cities down;
'Twould be a pity, if a single stamp
Smash'd bright Belfast—sweet linen-vending town.)
Why have you travelled from your sea-beat dome?
“Because our monarch has arrived—King George the Fourth has come!”

8

Last slopes in, sailing from the extremest south,

Showing how Cape Clear becometh ane Marcus Tullius.

Gallant Cape Clear, a most tempestuous isle;
Certain am I, that when she opes her mouth
She will harangue in oratoric style.

168

So North, and South, and East, and West combine,
Ulster, and Connaught, Leinster, Munster, Meath,
To hail the King, who, first of all his line,
Was ever seen old Ireland's sky beneath.
All shall exclaim, for none shall there be mum,
“Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!”

L'Envoy.

1

Mocke commendation on various folk.

How living people joy, I shall not tell,
Else I should make my song a mile in length;
Plebeian bards that theme may answer well,
Chanting their lays with pertinacious strength:
They may describe how all, both man and beast,
Have in the general glee respective shares;
How equal merriment pervades the breast
Of sharks and lawyers—asses and Lord Mayors—
Of whelps and dandies—orators and geese—
In short, of every living thing, all in their own degrees.

2

Where it is earnestly requested of the poets of Dublin, not to slay the King after the fashion of Ankerstroem or Ravillac.

But ye, remorseless rhymesters, spare the King!
Have some compassion on your own liege Lord!
Oh! it would be a most terrific thing
Were he to death by Dublin poets bored.
See three sweet singers out of College bray,
And all the aldermen have hired a bard,
The Castle, too, its ode, I ween, will pay,
And the newspapers have their pens prepared.
Be silent, then, and mute, ye unpaid fry!
Let none attempt to greet the King, save such great bards as I.