Ballads By William Makepeace Thackeray Part 27

And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A Hay, And the Marchioness of Sligo there.

Yes, Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls, And pretty girls, was sporting there; And some beside (the rogues!) I spied, Behind the windies, coorting there.

O there's one I know, bedad would show As beautiful as any there, And I'd like to hear the pipers blow, And shake a fut with f.a.n.n.y there!

* James Matheson, Esq., to whom, and the Board of Directors of the Peninsular and Oriental Company, I, Timotheus Molony, late stoker on board the "Iberia," the "Lady Mary Wood," the "Tagus," and the Oriental steamships, humbly dedicate this production of my grateful muse.

THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.

Ye Genii of the nation, Who look with veneration.

And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore; Ye sons of General Jackson, Who thrample on the Saxon, Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon sh.o.r.e,

When William, Duke of Schumbug, A tyrant and a humbug, With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, Our fort.i.tude and valiance Insthructed his battalions To respict the galliant Irish upon Shannon sh.o.r.e.

Since that capitulation, No city in this nation So grand a reputation could boast before, As Limerick prodigious, That stands with quays and bridges, And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon sh.o.r.e.

A chief of ancient line, 'Tis William Smith O'Brine Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more: O the Saxons can't endure To see him on the flure, And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon sh.o.r.e!

This valliant son of Mars Had been to visit Par's, That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor; And to welcome his returrn From pilgrimages furren, We invited him to tay on the Shannon sh.o.r.e.

Then we summoned to our board Young Meagher of the sword: 'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore; And Mitchil of Belfast We bade to our repast, To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon sh.o.r.e.

Convaniently to hould These patriots so bould, We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store; And with ornamints and banners (As becomes gintale good manners) We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon sh.o.r.e.

'Twould binifit your sowls, To see the b.u.t.thered rowls, The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore, And the m.u.f.fins and the crumpets, And the band of hearts and thrumpets, To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon sh.o.r.e.

Sure the Imperor of Bohay Would be proud to dthrink the tay That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour; And, since the days of Strongbow, There never was such Congo-- Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it--by Shannon sh.o.r.e.

But Clarndon and Corry Connellan beheld this sworry With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core; And they hired a gang of ruffins To interrupt the m.u.f.fins, And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon sh.o.r.e.

When full of tay and cake, O'Brine began to spake; But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar Of a ragam.u.f.fin rout Began to yell and shout, And frighten the propriety of Shannon sh.o.r.e.

As Smith O'Brine harangued, They batthered and they banged: Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore; They smashed the lovely windies (Hung with muslin from the Indies), Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon sh.o.r.e.

With throwing of brickbats, Drowned puppies and dead rats, These ruffin democrats themselves did lower; Tin kettles, rotten eggs, Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, They flung among the patriots of Shannon sh.o.r.e.

O the girls began to scrame And upset the milk and crame; And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and swore: And Mitchil of Belfast, 'Twas he that looked aghast, When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon sh.o.r.e.

O the lovely tay was spilt On that day of Ireland's guilt; Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door?

'Tis a national disgrace: Let me go and veil me face;"

And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon sh.o.r.e.

"Cut down the b.l.o.o.d.y horde!"

Says Meagher of the sword, "This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;"

But the best use Tommy made Of his famous battle blade Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon sh.o.r.e.

Immortal Smith O'Brine Was raging like a line; 'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar; In his glory he arose, And he rushed upon his foes, But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon sh.o.r.e.

Then the Futt and the Dthragoons In squadthrons and platoons, With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore; And they bate the rattatoo, But the Peelers came in view, And ended the shaloo on the Shannon sh.o.r.e.

LARRY O'TOOLE.

You've all heard of Larry O'Toole, Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; He had but one eye, To ogle ye by-- Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l!

A fool He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.

'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, That tuck down pataties and mail; He never would shrink From any sthrong dthrink, Was it whisky or Drogheda ale; I'm bail This Larry would swallow a pail.

Oh, many a night at the bowl, With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl; He's gone to his rest, Where's there's dthrink of the best, And so let us give his old sowl A howl, For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl.

THE ROSE OF FLORA.

Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle Brady.

On Brady's tower there grows a flower, It is the loveliest flower that blows,-- At Castle Brady there lives a lady, (And how I love her no one knows); Her name is Nora, and the G.o.ddess Flora Presents her with this blooming rose.

"O Lady Nora," says the G.o.ddess Flora, "I've many a rich and bright parterre; In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers, But you're the fairest lady there: Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty, Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!"

What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her!

Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew.

Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let, That darkly glistens with gentle jew!

The lily's nature is not surely whiter Than Nora's neck is,--and her arrums too.

"Come, gentle Nora," says the G.o.ddess Flora, "My dearest creature, take my advice, There is a poet, full well you know it, Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs,-- Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry, If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise."

THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE.

On reading of the general indignation occasioned in Ireland by the appointment of a Scotch Professor to one of HER MAJESTY'S G.o.dless colleges, MASTER MOLLOY MOLONY, brother of THADDEUS MOLONY, Esq., of the Temple, a youth only fifteen years of age, dashed off the following spirited lines:--

As I think of the insult that's done to this nation, Red tears of rivinge from me fatures I wash, And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytistation, The sleeves that appointed PROFESSOR M'COSH.

I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience, And see midst her childthren, the witty, the wise,-- Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schollars, grammarians, All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise;