In the horrid belly pent, Sir,
Think on what I fuffer'd there;
Forc'd to keep a difmal Lent, Sir,
And to breathe infectious air:
Nought but fish to feed upon, Sir,
And compell'd to eat it raw;
All my hopes were almost gone, Sir,
E'er I left the monit'rous jaw.
Then Samfon rofe next, once in prowess fo big,
But at that time friend Samfon had just got his wig,
He related the tale of his dire mishap,
How his wife fhav'd his head as he slept in her lap.
Oh, dear, what can the matter be,
Oh, dear, what can the matter be,
Samfon has loft all his hair,
Oh that I e'er fhould have taken fo found a nap,
Oh that I e'er fhould have taken it in her lap,
Oh that I had but tied on my red night cap,
Then Samfon had ne'er loft his hair;
Oh dear what can the matter be,
Mercy on me, what can the matter be, &c. ad libitum.
They next call'd on Job, as a fong was his fort,
But they begg'd, as 'twas late, that his fong might be short; So he fung Chevy Chafe, to a dismal psalm tune,
Which the prophets all thought would have lasted till noon,
Now Mofes it seems, Sir, who good hours kept,
While they fat a finging, why he fat and flept;
But wak'd by the noife, Sir, of calling encore.
He bid them get home, for they fhould drink no more,
Well-bred Aaron, it feems, Sir, at this took offence,
And fwore, want of good manners fhew'd want of good sense;
This caus'd a difpute, fome reflections were caft,
But for decency's fake we'll not mention what past.
ON April the first I set off, like a fool,
From Kilkenny to Dublin, to fee Lawrence Tool,
My mother's third coufin, who often wrote down,
For to come and to see how he flourished in town.
I had scarce fet a foot in the terrible place,
Before a fpalpeen came and star'd me in my face-
He call'd to a prefs-gang-they came without fail,
And foon neck and crap carried Patrick O'Neal.
'They scamper'd away as they thought with a prize,
Taking me for a failor, you see in disguise,
But a terrible blunder they made in their strife,
For I ne'er faw a fhip nor the sea in my life.
Then ftraight to a tender they made me repair,
But of tenderness, devil a morfel was there;
Och! I ramp'd and I curs'd, but it did not avail
'Till a great fwimming caftle met Patrick O'Neal,
This big fwinging thief roll'd about in the tide,
Wid all her front teeth fticking faft by her fide;
Where they bid me to mount, and be fure for to keep
Faft hold with my trotters for fear I should trip.
I let go my hands, and stuck fast with my toes,
And (how it could happen, the Lord above knows)
Fell plump in the water, and splash'd like a whale,
Till pretty well pickled was Patrick O'Neal,
Wid a great fwell of laughter, they hoifted me in,
To this huge wooden world, full of riot and din;
What frings and what pullies attracted my eye,
And how large were the sheets that were hung out to dry.
It feem'd Noah's ark, fluft with different guests,
Hogs, pedlars, geefe, failors, and all other beafts;
Some drank bladders of gin, fome drank pitchers of ale,
While fome fat and laugh'd at poor Patrick O'Neal.
Then to go down below I expreft a great wish,
Where they live under water like so many fish;
I was clapt in a mess with some more of the crew,
They call'd it banyan day-fo gave me burgoo:
For a bed I'd a fack fwung as high as my chin,
They call'd it a hammock, and bid me get in:
I took a great leap, but my footing was frail,
For clean over canted was Patrick O'Neal
The devil a wink could I sleep all the night,
And awoke the next morn in a terrible fright;
Up hammocks-down chefts-they began for to bawl,
Here's a Frenchman in fight-fure! fays I-is that all?
Then we haul'd up our large window fhutters with speed,
And run out our bull dogs of true English breed;
While the creatures gave mouth I held fast by the tail,
And they kick'd and run over poor Patrick O'Neal,
Thus we rattled away, by my foul, hob a nob,
Till the Frenchman gave out as he thought a bad job,
To tie him behind, a large cord they did bring,
And we led him along like a pig`in a string,
Then home to Old England we dragg'd the French boy,
Och! the fight of the land made me fea-fick for joy;
They made up a peace, and the war growing stale,
Set all hands adrift with poor Patrick O'Neal,
So, ye fee, on dry land, a fafe courfe I can fteer,
Neither cat-head, nor cat-block, nor any cat fear;
While there's a thot in the locker, I'll fing I'll be bound.
And Saturday night shall last all the week round.
But fince king and country now call us amain,
By the piper of Leinster I'll venture again,
Make another dry voyage-bring home a fresh tale,
And you'll laugh till you cry at poor Patrick N'Neal,
TOM Careless was odd, like a genius, fome faid,
And his heart, to speak truth, was as odd as his head;
For he flighted all maxims to ferve his own ends,
And he had but one purpose-a zeal for his friends;
His motto was this, in whatever you do,
Perfift in the right and you're fure to come through.'
In life 'twas his fortune, alas! to take part,
In forrows that wore, and that wounded the heart,
To himself, like a mifer, he kept all his grief;
His philofophy, filence, that flighted relief;
When danger oppos'd him he still kept in view
His old motto' perfift and you're fure to come through.'
Men complain of the fex, but so strange was his mind,
Treat them well, he would fay, and they're fure to be kind:
When he heard of bad people, this whimsical elf,
Had a frange way of thinking all good but himself:
The world gave him talents he thought were not true,
His empire was temper, and there he came through.
Of foes, while he liv'd, he would reckon on none,
When he died all exclaim'd,' that good nature was gone;"
Tom Careless had converfe which forrow beguil'd,
For he talk'd like a man with the heart of a child;
And to his last moments this point kept in view,
• Perfist in the right and you're fure to come through.'
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