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W. M. Thackeray
The Battle of Limerick
YE Genii of the nation,
Who look with veneration,
And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore;
Ye sons of General Jackson,
Who thrample on the Saxon,
When William, Duke of Schumbug,
With cannon and with thunder on our city bore,
Our fortitude and valliance
Insthructed his battalions
To rispict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore.
Since that capitulation,
No city in this nation
So grand a reputation could boast before,
As Limerick prodigious,
That stands with quays and bridges,
And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore.
A chief of ancient line,
'Tis William Smith O'Brine
Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more.
Oh, the Saxons can't endure
To see him on the flure,
And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore!
This valliant son of Mars
Had been to visit Par's,
That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolour;
And to welcome his returrn
From pilgrimages furren,
We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore.
Then we summoned to our board
Young Meagher of the sword;
'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore;
And Mitchil of Belfast
We bade to our repast,
To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore.
Convaniently to howld
These patriots so bowld,
We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store;
(As becomes gintale good manners)
We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore.
'Twould binifit your sowls
To see the buttherd rowls,
The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore, And the muffins and the crumpets,
And the band of harps and thrumpets,
To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore.
Sure the Imperor of Bohay
Would be proud to dthrink the tay
That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour; And since the days of Strongbow,
There never was such Congo
Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it-by Shannon shore.
But Clarndon and Corry
With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core;
And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore,
When full of tay and cake,
But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar
Began to yell and shout,
And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore.
As Smith O'Brine harangued,
They batthered and they banged,
Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore;
(Hung with muslin from the Indies),
Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore.
With throwing of brickbats,
These ruffin democrats themselves did lower;
Tin kettles, rotten eggs,
Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs,
They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.
Oh, the girls began to scrame
And upset the milk and crame;
And the honourable gintlemin, they cursed and swore;
And Mitchil of Belfast,
'Twas he that looked aghast,
When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore.
Oh, the lovely tay was spilt
On that day of Ireland's guilt;
Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door? 'Tis a national disgrace;
Let me go and veil me face."
And he bowlted with quick pace from the Shannon shore.
"Cut down the bloody horde!"
"This conduct would disgrace any blackamore."
But the best use Tommy made
Of his famous battle blade
Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore.
Immortal Smith O'Brine
Was raging like a line;
'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar.
In his glory he arose,
And he rush'd upon his foes,
But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.
Then the Futt and the Dthragoons
In squadthrons and platoons,
With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore;
And they bate the rattatoo,
But the Peelers came in view,
And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.
George de Barnwell
(Burlesquing Lytton in conjunction with " George Barnwell," a popular tragedy by Lillo.).
¦ On the Morning of Life the Truthful wooed the Beautiful, and their offspring was Love. Like his Divine parents, He is eternal. He has his Mother's ravishing smile, his Father's steadfast eyes. He rises every day, fresh and glorious as the untired Sun-God. He is Eros, the ever young. Dark, dark were this world of ours had either Divinity left itdark without the day-beams of the Latonian Charioteer, darker yet without the dædal Smile of the God of the Other Bow! Dost know him, reader?
Old is he, Eros, the ever young. He and Time were children together. Chronos shall die too; but Love is imperishable. Brightest of the Divinities, where hast thou not been sung? Other worships pass away; the idols for whom pyramids were raised lie in the desert crumbling and almost nameless; the Olympians are fled, their fanes no longer rise among the quivering olive-groves of Ilissus, or crown the emerald islets of the amethyst Ægean! These are gone, but thou remainest. There is still a garland for thy temple, a heifer for thy stone. A heifer? Ah, many a darker sacrifice! Other blood is shed at thy altars, Remorseless One, and the Poet Priest who ministers at thy Shrine draws his auguries from the bleeding hearts of men!
While Love hath no end, can the Bard ever cease singing? In Kingly and Heroic ages, 'twas of Kings and Heroes that