I know it, friend, she's light as air,
False as the fowler's artful snare;
Inconstant as the passing wind,
As Winter's dreary frost unkind.
She's such a miser too in love,
Its joys she'll neither share nor prove:
Though hundreds of gallants await
From her victorious eyes their fate.
Blushing at such inglorious reign,
I sometimes strive to break her chain;
And reason summon to my aid,
Resolved no more to be betray'd.
Ah, friend! 'tis but a shortlived trance,
Dispell'd by one enchanting glance;
She need but look, and I confess
Those looks completely curse or bless.
So soft, so elegant, so fair,
Sure something more than human's there;
I must submit, for strife is vain,
"Twas destiny that forged the chain.
YE swains of the Shannon, fair Sheelah is gone,
Ye swains of the Shannon, fair Sheelah is gone,
Ochone, my dear jewel,
Why was you so cruel
Amidst my companions to leave me alone?
Though Teague shut the casement in Ballyclough hall; Though Teague shut the casement in Ballyclough hall; In the dark she was groping,
Och! the devil himself could not stand such a fall.
In beholding your charms, I can see them no more,
In beholding your charms, I can see them no more,
If you're dead, do but own it;
Then you'll hear me bemoan it;
For in loud lamentations your fate I'll deplore.
Devil curse this occasion with tumults and strife!
Devil curse this occasion with tumults and strife!
O! the month of November,
She'll have cause to remember,
As a black letter day all the days of her life.
With a rope I could catch the dear creature I've lost! With a rope I could catch the dear creature I've lost! But, without a dismission,
And be hang'd with disgrace for deserting my post.
BEHOLD! my brave Britons, the fair springing gale! Fill a bumper and toss off your glasses:
Buss and part with your frolicsome lasses; Then abroad and unfurl the wide flowing sail.
While British oak beneath us rolls,
And English courage fires our souls;
To crown our toils, the Fates decree
The wealth and empire of the sea.
Our canvass and cares to the winds we display,
Life and fortune we cheerfully venture;
And we laugh, and we quaff, and we banter;
Nor think of to-morrow while sure of to-day.
The streamers of France at a distance appear
We must mind other music than catches;
Man our quarters, and handle our matches;
Our cannon produce, and for battle prepare.
Engender'd in smoke and deliver'd in flame,
British vengeance rolls loud as the thunder!
Let the vault of the sky burst asunder,
So victory follows with riches and fame.
While British oak beneath us rolls,
And English courage fires our souls;
To crown our toils, the Fates decree
The wealth and empire of the sea.
COME listen, ye students of every degree,
I sing of a wit and a tutor, perdie,
A statesman profound, and a critic immense,
In short, a mere jumble of learning and sense;
And yet of his talents though laudably vain,
His own family arts he could never attain.
His father, intending his fortune to build,
In his youth would have taught him the trowel to wield
But the mortar of discipline never would stick,
For his skull was secured by a facing of brick;
And with all his endeavours of patience and pain,
The skill of his sire he could never attain.
His mother, a housewife, neat, artful, and wise,
Renown'd for her delicate biscuit and pies, ·
Soon alter'd his studies, but flattering his taste,
From the raising of wall to the rearing of paste:
But all her instructions were fruitless and vain,
For the pie-making mystery he ne'er could attain.
Yet true to his race, in his labours were seen
A jumble of both their professions, I ween;
For when his own genius he ventured to trust,
His pies seem'd of brick, and his houses of crust.
Then, good Mr. Tutor, pray be not so vain,
Since your family arts you could never attain.
PROLOGUE TO THE REPRISAL.
SPOKEN BY MR. HAVARD.
AN ancient sage, when Death approach'd his bed,
Consign'd to Pluto his devoted head;
And, that no fiend might hiss or prove uncivil,
With vows and prayers he fairly bribed the devil:
Yet neither vows, nor prayers, nor rich oblation,
Could always save the sinner-from damnation.
Thus authors, tottering on the brink of fate,
The critics' rage with prologues deprecate;
Yet oft the trembling bard implores in vain,
The wit profess'd turns out a dunce in grain:
No plea can then avert the dreadful sentence,
He must be damn'd-in spite of all repentance.
Here Justice seems from her straight line to vary,
No guilt attends a fact involuntary;
This maxim the whole cruel charge destroys,
No poet sure was ever dull-by choice.
So pleads our culprit in his own defence,
You cannot prove his dulness is-prepense.
He means to please he owns no other view;
And now presents you with a sea ragoût.
A dish-howe'er you relish his endeavours,
Replete with a variety of flavours.
A stout Hibernian and ferocious Scot
Together boil in our enchanted pot;
To taint these viands with the true fumet,
He shreds a musty, vain, French—martinet.
This stale ingredient might our porridge mar
Without some acid juice of English tar.
To rouse the appetite the drum shall rattle,
And the dessert shall be a bloodless battle.
What heart will fail to glow, what eye to brighten,
When Britain's wrath aroused begins to lighten !
Her thunders roll-her fearless sons advance,
And her red ensigns wave o'er the pale flowers of France.
Such game our fathers play'd in days of yore,
When Edward's banners fann'd the Gallic shore;
When Howard's arm Eliza's vengeance hurl'd,
And Drake diffused her fame around the world:
Still shall that godlike flame your bosoms fire,
The generous son shall emulate the sire;
Her ancient splendour England shall maintain,
O'er distant realms extend her genial reign,
And rise-the' unrivall'd empress of the main.
EPILOGUE TO THE REPRISAL.
SPOKEN BY MISS MACKLIN.
Ar-now I can with pleasure look around,
Safe as I am, thank Heaven, on English ground-
In a dark dungeon to be stow'd away,
'Midst roaring, thundering, danger and dismay;
Exposed to fire and water, sword and bullet-
Might damp the heart of any virgin pullet-
I dread to think what might have come to pass,
Had not the British lion quell'd the Gallic ass-
By Champignon a wretched victim led
To cloister'd cell, or more detested bed,
My days in prayer and fasting I had spent:
As nun or wife, alike a penitent.
His gallantry, so confident and eager,
Had proved a mess of delicate soupe-maigre:
To bootless longings I had fallen a martyr:
But, Heaven be praised, the Frenchman caught a tartar.
Yet soft-our author's fate you must decree:
Shall he come safe to port or sink at sea?
Your sentence, sweet or bitter, soft or sore,
Floats his frail bark, or runs it bump ashore.-
Ye wits above, restrain your awful thunder:
In his first cruise, 'twere pity he should founder,
Safe from your shot he fears no other foe,
Nor gulf, but that which horrid yawns below.
The bravest chiefs, e'en Hannibal and Cato,
Have here been tamed with-pippin and potato.
Our bard embarks in a more Christian cause,
He craves not mercy; but he claims applause.
His pen against the hostile French is drawn,
Who damns him is no Antigallican.
Indulged with favouring gales and smiling skies,
Hereafter he may board a richer prize.
But if this welkin angry clouds deform,
[Looking round the House. And hollow groans portend the approaching storm: Should the descending showers of hail redouble,
And these rough billows hiss, and boil, and bubble,
He'll launch no more on such fell seas of trouble.
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