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"Murder!" says he, "murder!" says myself, so to it we

went, clitter clatter;

Till Miss Kitty, herself, ran down and ask'd what was the matter?

But when she seen myself over head and ears in a po of broth,

O God! says she, the scholar is drown'd, 'tis a pity faith and troth!

"Why madam," says Winny Walsh, "'twas himself struck Tim across the pate,

"Tim is a rogue," says she, by the same token he never will not taste my meat:"

So getting a short discharge (now this is the truth as I'm a sinner ;)

He went off with a flea in his ear, and as the saying is, without his dinner.

"Twas then Miss Betty came down (to be sure I never seen her such,)

"O Lord!" says she," Mister Scholar "I admire your courage very much :

Fye, Winny! do not weep-sure you can take himself for a spark,

'Pon my honor, he can write a ballad with any man from this to Cork."

Bright Goddess! says I myself, who art much chaster than Britomartis,

I adore your worshipful face-" Opus Naturæ non Artis! When Mistress Kelly heard the Latin, as she is always very discerning,

And is very civil to lads such as myself of polite learning:

"Hark'ee Tim!" says she, "lay the cloth-may the "weavers steal my yarn,

If I don't respect him more than one with gold-lace hounds and horn."

So when myself eat my 'nough, that I had done and that I could do no more :

I put my lavings in my satchel, as I had often done before: Then I went to the river side, the river was full up to the

brim,

I stript off all the clothes I had, and so I began to swim; But little did I dream, that all my substance would be

taken,

When I saw the big house dog run away with my books and bacon,

O Tearcoat! says I, murder! says I, what is that you're going to do?—

So he turn'd about his angry nose as who'd say, what is

that to you

?

Myself was in such a fright, I did not know where to sit or stand,

So at length I met John the Clerk with a white pole in his hand

Dear John! says I, to be sure says I, you never heard of

such a case;

Sure Tearcoat took my satchel and eat it up before my face!

I know that Duke, says John, since first he wore a leathern collar,

And I'll take my bible-book he plunder'd many a ragged scholar;

Ragged scholar! says myself, pray John! hold your prate,

So I went to the shepherd's house for you must know it was very late;

The woman prepar'd a goose, that was fit for the lord of

the manor,

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Mister O'Shaughnessy! says she, your learning deserves greater honour.

But what you'll do for bed, is a thing myself does not

know:

For the Cows eat all the straw last week in the time of

the snow:

But you can lie with ourselves, for Charles went from

home this day;

Hark'ee, woman! says myself, do you know what you're going to say?

"Odi profanum Vulgus"—don't you know that I am a man of letters;

Well then if you be wise, you never will think of your betters.

So myself stretch'd my weary limbs, and fell asleep in a

trice,

For my satchel, you know, being gone, I was not afraid of the mice;

Then I dreamt the house of Rockwood was full of ladies

and people;

And that ev'ry candle in the parlour was as high as a

steeple,

Methought I stood at the door when Mrs. Kelly got up from the table;

Gentlemen and Ladies! says she, 'pon my honour I'll tell you no fable;

Behold that worthy youth!-altho' he cannot dance or caper,

He could write verse with any man that could set pen to paper:

But Tearcoat stole his satchel, for which I'll hang the nasty thief!

Now four or five ten-pennies from you would be great

relief:

So the Ladies felt their pockets and each brought out a goodly piece;

Which were as welcome to myself, as if I got Jason's Golden fleece:

Now sir! if you'd speak to Mrs. Kelly to make this vision true,

Poor Daniel, as in duty bound would ever pray for her

and you.

THE FUNERAL.

THE moon arose obscurely dark and clouded,
In fogs the vales, in mists the hills were shrouded;
From neighb'ring crops the pedling cadgers sped,
And whipp'd their garrons thus, too cheaply fed;
The grunting sows enjoy the partial light,
To glean the random dropping of the night.
And now the villagers were busied seen,
To throng the Funeral of EVELEEN;
The rustic hoydens carefully prepare,

The wholesome mawfreight of their morning fare,
Their high-caul'd caps were border'd and beloam'd,
Their brogues were butter'd, and their foreheads comb'd,
An equal care the selfish pride employs,

The titirating labour of the boys,

Their stockings ruffled, with peculiar grace,

And strong brass-pins supplied the cravat's place.

In simple guise the old and pious went,

Thro' holy views on charity intent;

And now with great respect the matrons crowd,
They see old EVELEEN in her latest shroud,
Her old companions take a last farewell,
They seem the fondest who in shouts excel:
The aged hags to qualify their throats
For all the varied forms of woeful notes,
If thro' roaring fondness hoarse and tir'd,
With brimful cups of potteen are inspir'd,
And then once more they chorus'd W'hillaloo,
In all its wild extravagance renew;

Tho' ev'ry thought of friendly reason fled,

With shouts they puff'd their fondness for the dea d. Now round the door the busy crowds appear,

And shoulder'd Eveleen upon her bier,

Her friends are foremost from her lov'd abode,
Thro' ancient custom to sustain the load.
Another scene does in the bawn appear,
Of garrons saddled scarcely once a year,
Which knotted bridles vainly can restrain;
Impatient now to ramble on the plain,
On girtless saddles next the riders try'd
With Parthian skill the rearing hacks to guide.
The saddles rop'd or timid riders chang'd,
At length the steeds were peaceably arrang'd
Until the hoydens seem'd to mount behind;
The lads they lov'd, who now were clean and kind.
The garrons never used to carry double,
Appear'd to mock their owner's care and trouble;
Press'd by the weight of one promiscuous fall,
Down come the hoydens, pillions, boys and all,
To tame the fury mettle of the steed,

Thro' neighb'ring fields he's forced with eager speed,
And then returning weary, tam'd and heated,

Allow the brawny hoydens to be seated.

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With solemn gait the throng'd procession goes,
While shouts declare the wildness of their woes!
But who is she so pitiful and loud?

Whose shrieks awake the notice of the crowd;
A stranger she to ev'ry one unknown,
But thought a friend-as all she did bemoan;
At last her frantic shew of anguish o'er
What corpse is that she kindly does implore?
Some laugh at all the trouble of the creature,
And more approve her friendly, fond good nature.
The church-yard gain'd, old EVELEEN is laid

Close to the gate until the grave is made

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