THE WHITE SQUALL. There was sleep from fore to mizzen, And never a star had risen The hazy sky to speck. Strange company we harbored: We'd a hundred Jews to larboard, Unwashed, uncombed, unbarberedJews black, and brown, and gray. With terror it would seize ye, Who did nought but scratch and pray. To starboard Turks and Greeks were- In silence smoked and squatted, In pretty, pleasant play. He can't but smile who traces And so the hours kept tollingAnd through the ocean rolling Went the brave Iberia bowling, Before the break of day When a squall, upon a sudden, And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, And the steward jumps up, and hastens 433 As the warring waters doused them, Then all the fleas in Jewry And each inan moaned and jabbered in In woe and lamentation, And howling consternation. And the splashing water drenches And they crawl from bales and benches, In a hundred thousand stenches. This was the white squall famous, Which latterly o'ercame us, And which all will remember, On the 28th September: When a Prussian captain of Lancers And scorned the tempest's tussle; With that vain wind could wrestle; And through the hubbub brought her, And when, its force expended, Came blushing o'er the sea,- WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN. On! St. Patrick was a gentleman, He built a church in Dublin town, His father was a Gallagher; So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, For he's a saint so clever; O! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, And bothered them for ever! The Wicklow hills are very high, And so 's the Hill of Howth, sir; But there's a hill, much bigger still, Much higher nor them both, sir. 'T was on the top of this high hill St. Patrick preached his sarmint O! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, There's not a mile in Ireland's isle Where dirty varmin musters, But there he put his dear fore-foot, And murdered them in clusters. The toads went pop, the frogs went hop, Slap-dash into the water; And the snakes committed suicide To save themselves from slaughter. So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, For he's a saint so clever; O! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue In soups and second courses. He gave them a rise, which opened their eyes To a sense of their situation. So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, For he's a saint so clever; O! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, No wonder that those Irish lads Should understand distilling, So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, O! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, And bothered them for ever! THE IRISHMAN. I. THERE was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man-- A wild, tremendous Irishman A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman. II. His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 't was scarred across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across. O, the lump of an IrishmanThe whiskey devouring IrishmanThe great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue -the fighting, rioting Irishman! III. One of his eyes was bottle green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear! O, the great big IrishmanThe rattling, battling IrishmanThe stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman. IV. He took so much of Lundy-foot That he used to snort and snuffle-O; And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. O, the horrible Irishman The thundering, blundering IrishmanThe slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman. V. His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; He'd not rest till he filled it full again; The boozing, bruising Irishman The 'toxicated Irishman The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman. VI. This was the lad the lady loved, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity; O, the leathering Irishman— The barbarous, savage Irishman— The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman. WILLIAM MAGINN. THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. THE groves of Blarney they look so charming, Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks All decked by posies, that spontaneous grow there, Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 'Tis there the daisy, and the sweet carnation, The blooming pink, and the rose so fair; Likewise the lily, and the daffodillyAll flowers that scent the sweet, open air. 'Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation, There's gravel walks there for speculation, And conversation in sweet solitude; 'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or The gentle plover, in the afternoon. And if a young lady should be so engaging As to walk alone in those shady bowers, And whenever he emptied his tumbler of 'Tis there her courtier he may transport her punch In some dark fort, or under the ground. THE TOWN OF PASSAGE. 431 For 'tis there's the cave where no daylight enters, But bats and badgers are for ever bred; Being mossed by natur', that makes it sweeter Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 'Tis there's the lake that is stored with perches, And comely eels in the verdant mud; Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches, All standing in order for to guard the flood. 'Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in, With the maids a-stitching upon the stair; The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey, Would make you frisky if you were there. Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter A washing praties forenent the door, With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy, All blood relations to my Lord Donough more. There's statues gracing this noble place in, 'Tis in every feature I would make it shine. RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN. THE TOWN OF PASSAGE. THE town of Passage Is both large and spacious, And situated Upon the say; 'Tis nate and dacent, And quite adjacent To come from Cork On a summer's day. Or in a wherry On the other side." Mud cabins swarm in In their straw-built sty. There are ships from Cadiz, In whiskey-punch; For a quiet lunch. But land or deck on, You may safely reckon, Whatsoever country You come hither from, On an invitation To a jollification With a parish priest That's called "Father Tom." Of ships there's one fixt For lodging convicts A floating "stone jug" Of amazing bulk; All round this hulk. Must anchor weigh From th' em'rald island, Ne'er to see dry land Until they spy land In sweet Bot'ny Bay. FATHER PROUT. (Francis Mahony.) |