A Dirge They kill the soul; he only claimed the dwelling. And slaughter Fame and Honor for their prizes. They quench the Light! He only took the-Liver! I've known some hardened customers, I wot, Although I'm certain they'd defy digestion, How fond he was of children! To his breast 739 William Augustus Croffut. XII WHIMSEY AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE GOOD people all, with one accord, Who never wanted a good word- The needy seldom pass'd her door, She strove the neighborhood to please At church, in silks and satins new, Her love was sought, I do aver, But now, her wealth and finery fled, Parson Gray The doctors found, when she was dead- Let us lament, in sorrow sore; For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more She had not died to-day. 741 Oliver Goldsmith. PARSON GRAY A QUIET home had Parson Gray, His daughters all were feminine, How faithfully did Parson Gray 'Gainst all the vices of the age No clock more punctually went, His piety was ne'er denied; His truths hit saint and sinner; At morn he always breakfasted; He always dined at dinner. He ne'er by any luck was grieved, No filcher he, though when he preached, As faithful characters he drew As mortal ever saw; But ah! poor parson! when he died, His breath he could not draw! Oliver Goldsmith. THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY THERE was a lady liv'd at Leith, A lady very stylish, man; And yet, in spite of all her teeth, A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman. His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 'twas scarr'd across; Were almost double a yard across. Oh, the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue-the fighting, rioting Irishman! One of his eyes was bottle-green, And the other eye was out, my dear; The rattling, battling Irishman The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman! He took so much of Lundy-foot That he used to snort and snuffle-O! And in shape and size the fellow's neck The Cataract of Lodore Oh, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman 743 The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hasliing Irishman! His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again. The boosing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman! This was the lad the lady lov'd, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity. Oh, 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 CATARACT OF LODORE "How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; To tell him in rhyme. Anon at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, |