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Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn

edited by Dr. Shelton Mackenzie
Maginn, William (1793-1842)

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Vol. I.
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[MEMOIR OF MORGAN ODOHERTY]
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Maxims of ODoherty.
  
DON JUAN UNREAD.
  
The Irishman and the Lady.
  
Here Let me Dine.
  
[Oh! lovely Polly Savage]
  
THE SOMNAMBULATORY BUTCHER.—An Episode.
  
AILIE MUSHAT'S CAIRN.
  
ODE ON THE DEATH OF YAHMASSEERO, COUNCILLOR OF STATE.
  
STANZAS.
  
[The hounds in the kennel are yelling loud]
  
FRAGMENT OF A VISION.
  
THE GALIONGEE.
  
[Oh! mortal man, how varied is thy lot]
  
[Theyre wals ane Brounie offe mucle faime]
  
THE KAIL POT.
  
BILLY BLINN.
  
Inishowen.
  
How to woo!
  
There's not a Ioy that Life can give, &c.
  
'Tis in vain to complain.
  
Chanson a Boire.
  
Song of a Fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-Punch.
  
[“Let us drink and be merry]
  
An Hundred Years Hence.
  
A Dozen Years Hence.
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The Pewter Quart.
 1. 
Preface to the Reader, which serves also for Invocation.
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2.
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9.
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10.
  
The Leather Bottle.
  
[Now, what do you say to the canns of wood?]
  
[Now for the pots with handles three]
  
[Now what of the flagons of silver fine?]
  
[Of tilting furniture, emblazoned shields]
  
[Now, what do you say to these glasses fine?]
  
[Now when this bottle is grown old]
  
['Tis a pitiful thing, that now-a-days, sirs]
  
[And now I will begin to declare]
  
[And therefore leave your twittle twattle]
  
[Be your liquor small, or thick as mud]
  
[No flagon, tankard, bottle, or iug]
  
[Socrates and Aristotle]
  
[Besides, my good friend, let me tell you, that fellow]
  
[Your leathèr bottle is used by no man]
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An Idyl on the Battle.
  
LAMENT OF A BIG BRISTOL BUTCHER.
  
A Twist-imony in Favour of Gin-Twist.
  
Cork is the Aiden for you, love, and me.
  
BALLAD ON THE DEATH OF SIMON DE MONTFORT, EARL OF LEICESTER, AT THE BATTLE OF EVERSHAM, 1226.
  
Lament for Lord Byron.
  
Odoherty's Dirge
  
Drink.
  
Crambambulee.
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Vol. II
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Vol. IV.
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Vol. V.

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9.

If Hock then loves the glass of green,
And champagne in its swan-necked flask is seen;
If Glasgow punch in a bowel we lay,
And twist off our dram in a wooden quaigh;
If, as botanical men admit,
Everything has its habitat fit,
Let Sir John Barleycorn keep his court,
Turban'd with froth in his Pewter Quart.
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