Rhapsodies :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rhapsodies

By W. H. Ireland

Ireland, W. H. (1777-1835)

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TO THE READER.

DEDICATED, By Permission, TO LADY HUNLOKE, OF WINGERWORTH, DERBYSHIRE.

RHAPSODIES.

ANACREONTIC.

EPIGRAM On a gentleman in fear of bailiffs.

LINES Under the statue of Love, by Voltaire.

POOR POLLY, THE MAD GIRL.

A BALLAD.

LINES.

SOLILOQUY OF A GARRETEER.

EPIGRAM On a known fact.

THE LITTLE RED WOMAN,

SONG—POOR JANE.

EXTEMPORE,

LINES By a Poet, to the object of his idolatry.

THE BASTARD.

THE BASTARD's COMPLAINT.

REPLY TO THE BASTARD's COMPLAINT.

TO A FRIEND,

ODE TO CHARITY.

LINES To the departed Spirit of a Parent.

THE WHITE LADY ;

FRAGMENT.

EPIGRAM On a set of bell ringers.

ON THE HEART,

SEA SONG.

LINES On hearing a person maintain that Man might have been formed less vicious.

EPITAPH, Written at the request of a friend, on his much-lamented wife.

LINES On a happy union.

THE ABBEY PORCH, AND MELANCHOLY MAN'S CONTEMPLATION.

BALLAD.

EPIGRAM On a country judge.

BACCHANALIAN:

THE MISTRESS's QUESTION.

THE LOVER's REPLY.

ON THE DEATH OF A FEMALE FRIEND,

LITTLE JOHN;

ON THE OAK IN PENSHURST PARK,

WILLY, THE FORSAKEN SWAIN.

ANACREONTIC.

THE QUESTION RESOLVED.

LINES From Age to Youth.

PARODY.

CUPID AND THE LOVE-SICK MAID.

EMPLOYMENT FOR A MISTRESS AND A WIFE.

FROM THE FRENCH.

CRAZY TOM, THE BEDLAMITE.

TO A MISTRESS.

FRAGMENT.

LINES Addressed to a young couple on the celebration of their nuptials.

LITTLE JANE;

TO AN ABSENT MISTRESS.

PARODY.

A LOVER's KISS.

ADVICE OF FRIENDSHIP.

THE LOVER's REPLY.

PARODY.

PARODY, In answer to the former.

LINES On following a lady with a beautiful turned ancle.

LINES On hearing a young Lady sing the celebrated mad song composed by Purcell.

BALLAD IMITATED.

PARODY.

LINES To a Mistress, who fled every worldly consideration for him she loved.

FROM THE FRENCH OF VOLTAIRE.

ANSWER, In 1802

A BALLAD, OF EDWARD AND ELGIVA, The Nun of St. Agatha.

LINES Addressed to the admirers of aerial excursions;

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THE LOVER's REPLY.

Oh! Love is joy, ecstatic bliss,
He reigns through every part;
His shafts can never prove amiss,
They warm the head and heart.

With gold his arrow's point is tipp'd,
It bears no iron dread;
In sweeter juice than bee e'er sipp'd
Is damp'd its glist'ning head.

No boding raven's feather's found;
Dove's plume his arrows bear;
My heart still cherishes the wound
Which you have planted there.