XII

WHIMSEY

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE

GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The King himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

Parson Gray

The doctors found, when she was dead

Her last disorder mortal.

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..

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Oliver Goldsmith.

PARSON GRAY

A QUIET home had Parson Gray,
Secluded in a vale;

His daughters all were feminine,
And all his sons were male.

How faithfully did Parson Gray
The bread of life dispense-
Well "posted" in theology,

And post and rail his fence.

'Gainst all the vices of the age
He manfully did battle;
His chickens were a biped breed,
And quadruped his cattle.

No clock more punctually went,
He ne'er delayed a minute-
Nor ever empty was his purse,
When he had money in it.

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,
By any care perplexed-

No filcher he, though when he preached,
He always "took" a text.

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,
She fell in love with an Irishman-

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;
And the shoulders of the ugly dog

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;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear.
Oh, the great big Irishman,

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
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.

The Cataract of Lodore

Oh, the horrible Irishman,

The thundering, blundering Irishman

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The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing 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;
And moreover he tasked me

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,
And to hear how the water

Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,

As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store;
And 'twas in my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate
To them and the King.

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains

In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;

Through moss and through brake,

It runs and it creeps
For a while till it sleeps
In its own little lake.
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,