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And the cradled babe
Fond the mother nursed it, Singing it a song
As she twists the worsted!
Up and down the stair
Two more young ones patter (Twins were never seen Dirtier or fatter).
Both have mottled legs,
66 Sure you must be froze
With the sleet and hail, sir;
So will you have some punch,
Presently a maid
Enters with the liquor (Half a pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker).
Gods! I didn't know
What my beating heart meant:
Hebe's self, I thought,
Entered the apartment. As she came she smiled,
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honour,
With a curtsey neat
Offers me the rummer;
Up the beaker tilted, And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it; Spilt it every drop
(Dames, who read my volumes, Pardon such a word)
On my what-d'ye-call-'ems!
Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster, Out began to laugh
· Missis, maid, and master. Such a merry peal
'Specially Miss Peg's was (As the glass of ale
Trickling down my legs was)
That the joyful sound
Of that mingling laughter
Echoed in my ears
Many a long day after.
When the laugh was done,
This I do declare:
Happy is the laddy Who the heart can share Of Peg of Limavaddy. Married if she were,
Blest would be the daddy
Of the children fair
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
In the land of Paddy;
Citizen or Squire,
Tory, Whig, or Radical would all desire
Peg of Limavaddy. Had I Homer's fire,
Or that of Serjeant Taddy, Meetly I'd admire
Peg of Limavaddy. And till I expire,
Or till I grow mad, I Will sing unto my lyre. Peg of Limavaddy!
-"The Irish Sketch-Book."
Letter from Mr. Yellowplush to Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer
HONRABBLE Barnet!-Retired from the littery world a year or moar, I didn't think anythink would injuice me to come forrards again; for I was content with my share of reputation, and propoas'd to add nothink to those immortial wux which have rendered this Magaseen so sallybrated.
Shall I tell you the reazn of my reappearants? A desire for the benefick of my fellow-creatures? Fiddlestick! A mighty truth with which my busm laboured, and which I must bring forth or die? Nonsince-stuff! Money's the secret, my dear Barnet-money-l'argong, gelt, spicunia. Here's quarter-day coming, and I'm blest if I can pay my landlud, unless I can ad hartificially to my inkum.
This is, however, betwigst you and me. There's no need to blacard the streets with it, or to tell the British public that Fitzroy Y-ll-wpl-sh is short of money, or that the sallybrated hauthor of the Y— Papers is in peskewniary difficklties, or is fiteagued by his superhuman littery labours, or by his famly suckmstansies, or by any other pusnal matter. My maxim, dear Bullwig, is on these pints to keep quiet. What the juice does the public care for you or me? Why must we always, in prefizzes and what not, be a talking about ourselves, and our igstrodnary merrats, woas, and injaries? It is on this subjick that I porpies, my dear Barnet, to speak to you in a friendly way; and praps you'll find my advice tolrabbly holesum.
Well, then-if you care about the apinions, fur good or evil, of us poor suvvants, I tell you, in the most candied