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

Some say that the air is much finer in Paris,
Or puff Naples in strains all as soft as its soap;
Others laud in their journal the City Eternal,
The Piazza di Spagna, the Corso, the Pope:—
Some more waste their pennies in tumbledown Venice
Or beggarly Florence, where Burgherst is queen;
And we've heard some dull villain bepraising of Milan.
Some, like mulligatawny, are stuck in Turin;—
It me very much puzzles to find what's in Brussels;—
As for Spa or Liege, why that's only a bam.
Their taste is not much, sir, who, lauding the Dutch, sir,
Speak well of that big-breechesed town, Amsterdam.

I'd as soon read Tom Roscoe, as sojourn in Moscow,
Or in Petersburgh, frosty-faced home of the Czar;
And as for your Hamburghers, and all other d--- burghers,
God keep us from such cursed cattle afar.
Let them prate of the Prater, while others so great are
On Berlin, where Blucher I knew in old times;
But I vow unto you, Nick, that sooner than Munich
I'd dwell in, I'd listen to Ludwig's own rhymes.

In jack-boots or pattens, away off to Athens,
Philhells and bluestockings, dear women! repair;
While the Turcophiles ramble to Mahomet's Stambol,
But, by Allah!—dear fellow:—you'll ne'er catch me there.
As for Stockholm, in Sweden, (which Rudbeck thought Eden,)
I'd as lief go to Boulogne or Botany Bay:—
He must be a Pagan, who thinks Copenhagen
A spot where a Christian could venture to stay.

108

My head I'm not troubling about dirty Dublin,
Or Edinburgh city, small place in the north;
The first in the Liffey I'd pitch in a jiffy,
T'other village might fill some thin creek of the Forth.
To conclude—To Madrid, sir, farewell do I bid, sir,
And garlicky Lisbon, strong town of Miguel;—
So, on casting the tour up of all parts of Europe,
I conclude for the sweet shady side of Pall Mall.

109

Lib. III. Carmen XIX.

Quantum distet ab Inacho, &c.

Don't bother me with your old tales of Plantagenet,
Your stories of Richard, or Harry, or Ned,
Greater nonsense than such, why, I can not imagine it—
We have heard long ago what of them can be said.
Come, tell me the place where I'll get the best bottle,
The strongest of tumblers, the mildest segars,
Or where I'd most chances of wetting my throttle
By the fire of a friend, when the coppers are scarce.

I call for a bumper—here, waiter, clean glasses!—
Here's the moon, or the stars, or whatever you please;—
Your health, Jack Mulrooney; so, off with “the lasses”
Why, thirty jugs more we'd demolish with ease.
Let the poet, God help him!—I see he's half muzzy—
Take no more than nine tumblers, that's one less than ten;
And those who 've a fancy to shy getting boozy,
Should not venture much further than twice that again.

So ho! What's the matter? Let's kick up a riot.
Here, piper! you ruffian, come blow us a jig;—
Do you think, for a moment, I mean to be quiet?
If I do, may old Scratch run away with my wig!
Make a row! push the bottle! whoop, shout, boys, and caper.
Why the deuce should I not raise a tumult and roar?
The neighbors, you say, will look sulky and vapor,
And so will the pretty young doxy next door;—
What? old fellow's friend? Pish! Tom, here is the lady,
Black-haired and black-eyed, you 've been courting so long.
As for me—fill the glass for the dear Widow Brady
Whose three hundred a year wakes your Munsterman's song.