In one corner some meal, in another a pail
Of sweet milk, and roll'd butter hard by it,
Some salt in a barrel, and for fear we should quarrel,
Some whisky to keep us both quiet.
Four knives and four forks, four bottles and corks,
Six plates, spoons, and two pewter dishes,
Salt butter a store, and salt herrings galore,
With good praties as much as she wishes;
Two pots and a griddle, a sieve and a riddle,
A slate for a tongs to bring fire on,
A pair of pot-hooks, and two little crooks
To hang up the salt-box and gridiron,
Three noggins, three mugs, a bowl, and two jugs,
A crock and a pan something lesser,
A nate looking-glass, to dress at for mass,
Nailed up to a clean little dresser ;
Some starch and some blue, in two papers for you,
An iron and holder to hold it,
A beetle to whack, and a stick horse's back
To dry your cap on 'fore you fold it.
Some onions and eggs in two little kegs,
A kish wherein plenty of turf is,
A spade and grifaun, to dig up the lawn,
And some manure to cover the murphies;
A dog and two cats, to run after the rats,
A cock for a clock, to give warning,
A plough and a sow, and a nate Kerry cow,
To give milk for your tea in the morning.
A churn and a dash, to make the cream splash,
Some boiling hot water to fill it,
Two saucepans with handles, and to make the rush candles
Some grease in a small metal skillet;
For a lump of fat bacon you'll not be short taken,
With some cabbage to put where the meat is,
A pair of new brogues, and two osier skillogues
To draw water from off the boiled praties.
Some flax and a wheel, some wool and a reel,
And a besom to keep the house snug,
A few bundles of frieze to cover my thighs,
And for you, a neat piece of brown rug;
But then for young Thady we must have clothes
ready,
With pineady to keep him a feeding,
A cradle see-saw and a red lobster's claw,
To give to the brat when he's teething.
Some soap to wash all, shirts, stockings, and caul,
A table, three stools, and a forum,
All this I will give, and I think we may live,
As well as the justice of quorum.
But Biddy, astore, should you want any more,
Roar out without any more bother,
For an Irishman's pride 'tis, whatever betide,
To keep his poor wife in good order.
Written in 1780. Newly arranged by W. Guernsey.
LOVE and whisky both,
Rejoice an honest fellow;
Unripe joys of life,
Love and whisky mellow,
Both the head and heart
Set in palpitation;
From both I've often found
A mighty sweet sensation.
Love and whisky's joys,
Let us gaily twist 'em,
In the thread of life,
Faith, we can't resist 'em.
But love's jealous pang
In heartache oft we find it;
Whisky, in its turn,
A headache leaves behind it.
Thus of love or drink,
We curse th' enchanted cup, sir;
All its charms forswear,
Then take another sup, sir.
Love and whisky's joys,
Let us gaily twist 'em,
In the thread of life,
Faith, we can't resist 'em.
Love and whisky can
To anything persuade us ;
No other power we fear,
That ever can invade us.
Should others dare intrude,
They'll find our lads so frisky
By none can be subdued,
Excepting love and whisky.
May the smiles of love
Cheer our lads so clever;
And with whisky, boys,
We'll drink Queen Vic. for ever.
To study the people, the climate and weather,
Dr. Johnson and Boswell a tour took together,
To Scotland, and some banyan days did endure,
For the living, they found, like the people, was poor.
At a little low pot house, one day, like a glutton,
Johnson had order'd a roast leg of mutton;
And Boswell, with appetite clever and 'cute,
Spoke for a nice boil'd plum-pudding to boot.
The mutton was ready-they sat down to dine,
"I'm hungry," said Boswell, "this mutton is fine;"
"Hem!" said the Doctor," the pudding's a treat,
I've alter'd my mind-I can't eat any meat."
In silence they dined, and the cloth clear'd away,
And Boswell said, "Why did you leave meat to-day?
'Tis something uncommon roast mutton be pass'd,
Strange that you starving should still longer fast!"
Said Johnson, "If really the truth must be said,
I saw the meat roasting-and saw the boy's head
Was frousy and scabby, and still as it ran,
He scratch'd it with both his hands over the pan.
"Unfriendly," said Boswell, "to play such a trick,
The thoughts of it even now makes my heart sick
;
If half an hour back you your silence had broke-"
Said Johnson, "No, that would have spoil'd a good
joke."
Enraged, return'd Boswell, "I'll have the boy in,
And curse him, I'll break ev'ry bone in his skin;
Come here, you young rascal,—say, how does it hap,
You don't on that vile scabby head wear a cap?"
Said the boy-" Why, gude sir, indeed it is true,
Why I dinna wear cap? 'deed, sir, I do;
But mither she kenning my cap wur a gude 'un,
She used it this mornin' to boil your plum-puddin'."
LORD HARRY HAS WRITTEN A
NOVEL.
[Music by SIR H, R. BISHOP.
LORD HAKRY has written a novel,
A story of elegant life;
No stuff about love in a hovel,
No sketch of a commoner's wife :
No trash such as pathos and passion,
Fine feelings, expression, and wit;
But all about people of fashion,
Come look at his caps, how they fit.
Oh! Radcliffe! thou once wert the charmer,
Of girls who sat reading all night;
Thy heroes were stipplings in armour,
Thy heroines damsels in white.
But past are thy terrible touches,
Our lips in derision we curl,
Unless we are told how a Duchess
Convers'd with her cousin the Earl.
We now have each dialogue quite full
Of titles-"I give you my word,
My lady, you're looking delightful.”
"Oh dear, do you think so, my Lord!"
"You've heard of the Marquis's marriage,
The bride with her jewels new set,
Four horses, new travelling carriage,
And déjeuné à la fourchette."
Haut ton finds her privacy broken,
We trace all her ins and her outs,
The very small talk that is spoken,
By very great people at routs.
At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of
The book from the innkeeper's wife,
And reads till she dreams she is one of
The leaders of elegant life.
Music arranged by
W. GUERNsey.
JOLLY Phoebus his car to the coach-house had driven,
And unharnessed his high-mettled horses of light;
He gave them a feed from the manger of heaven,
And rubbed them, and littered them up for the night.
Then down to the kitchen he leisurely strode,
Where Thetis, the housemaid, was sipping her tea;
He swore he was tired with that high up-hill road,
He'd have none of her slops nor hot-water, not he.
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