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,
And make your souls uneasy,
To see those Rabbis greasy,

Who did nought but scratch and pray.
Their dirty children puking-
Their dirty saucepans cooking-
Their dirty fingers hooking
Their swarming fleas away.

To starboard Turks and Greeks were-
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were-
Enormous wide their breeks were-
Their pipes did puff away;
Each on his mat allotted

In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted

In pretty, pleasant play.

He can't but smile who traces
The smiles on those brown faces,
And the pretty, prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.

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,
Came o'er the waters scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled;
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle;
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;

And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers, whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;

And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the necessary basins.

433

As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them;
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.

Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury:
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up,
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins ;)

And each inan moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish gabardine,

In woe and lamentation,

And howling consternation.

And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;

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
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)
Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potz tausend,
Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend?"
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,

And scorned the tempest's tussle;
And oft we've thought thereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel

With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gaily he fought her,

And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,
Cried, "George, some brandy and water!"

And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid

Came blushing o'er the sea,-
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN.

On! St. Patrick was a gentleman,
Who came of decent people;

He built a church in Dublin town,
And on it put a steeple.

His father was a Gallagher;
His mother was a Brady;
His aunt was an O'Shaughnessy,
His uncle an O'Grady.

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
That drove the frogs into the bogs,
And banished all the varmint.
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!

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,
And bothered them for ever!

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue
He charmed with sweet discourses,
And dined on them at Killaloe

In soups and second courses.
Where blind worms crawling in the grass
Disgusted all the nation,

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,
And bothered them for ever!

No wonder that those Irish lads
Should be so gay and frisky,
For sure St. Pat he taught them that,
As well as making whiskey;
No wonder that the saint himself

Should understand distilling,
Since his mother kept a shebeen shop
In the town of Enniskillen.

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 IRISHMAN.

I.

THERE was a lady lived at Leith,

A lady very stylish, man--
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman-
A nasty, ugly Irishman-

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,
Like Alexander, or like Helen fair;
There's no commander in all the nation
For regulation can with her compare.
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder
Could ever plunder her place of strength;
But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel,
And made a breach in her battlement.

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,

punch

In some dark fort, or under the ground.

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,
All heathen goddesses so fair-
Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus,
All standing naked in the open air.
So now to finish this brave narration,
Which my poor geni' could not entwine;
But were I Homer, or Nebuchadnezzar,

'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.
There you may slip in,
To take a dipping,
Forenent the shipping
That at anchor ride;

Or in a wherry
Cross o'er the ferry,
To "Carrigaloe,

On the other side."

Mud cabins swarm in
This place so charming,
With sailors' garments
Hung out to dry;
And each abode is
Snug and commodious,
With pigs melodious

In their straw-built sty.
'Tis there the turf is,
And lots of Murphies,
Dead sprats and herrings,
And oyster-shells;
Nor any lack, O!
Of good tobacco,
Though what is smuggled
By far excels.

There are ships from Cadiz,
And from Barbadoes-
But the leading trade is

In whiskey-punch;
And you may go in
Where one Molly Bowen
Keeps a nate hotel

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;
The hake and salmon,
Playing at backgammon,
Swim for divarsion

All round this hulk.
There "Saxon" jailers
Keep brave repailers
Who soon with sailors

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.)