DERMOT. * No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake: (I spare the thistles for sir Arthur's sake) Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat; The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat. SHEELAH. Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide; This petticoat shall save thy dear backside; Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet, Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat. DERMOT. At an old stubborn root I chanc'd to tug, When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug: A longer ha'p'orth* never did I see; This, dearest Sheelah, thou shalt share with me. SHEELAH. In at the pantry door this morn I slipt, And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt: Dennis was out, and I got hither safe; And thou, my dear, shalt have the bigger half. DERMOT. When you saw Tady at long bullets play, You sate and lous'd him all a sunshine day: How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales, Or crack such lice as his between your nails? SHEELAH. When you with Oonah stood behind a ditch, I peep'd, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch: Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts I almost wished this spud were in your guts. Who was a great lover of Scotland. F. Sir Arthur's butler. F DERMOT. If Oonah once I kiss'd, forbear to chide; Her aunt's my gossip by my father's side: But, if I ever touch her lips again, May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain! SHEELAH. Dermot, I swear, though Tady's locks could hold Ten thousand lice, and every louse was gold; Him on my lap you never more shall see; Or may I lose my weeding knife-and thee! DERMOT. O, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass, A pair of brogues to bear thee dry to mass! But see, where Norah with the sowins † comesThen let us rise, and rest our weary bums. ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S-HOLE‡, WITH THE DOCTOR § AT THEIR HEAD. N. B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR. 1728. SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. FAIR ladies, number five, Who, in your merry freaks, Shoes with flat low heels. F. A sort of flummery. F. An alehouse in Dublin famous for beef-steaks. F. While he sits by a grinning, To see you safe in Sot's hole, Set up with greasy linen, And neither mugs nor pots whole; Alas! I never thought, A priest would please your palate; Besides, I'll hold a groat, He'll put you in a ballad; faces Where I shall see your They'll be no more like Graces, And we shall take you rather It fills my heart with woe, Be by a parson cheated! Had you been cunning stagers, You might yourselves be treated By captains and by majors. See how corruption grows, While mothers, daughters, aunts, If we, who wear our wigs Z-ds! who would be a rake? Had I a heart to fight, I'd knock the doctor down; Then leave him to his birch *; THE FIVE LADIES ANSWER TO THE BEAU, BY DR. SHERIDAN. 1 WITH THE WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD. You little scribbling beau, What demon made you write? Because to write you know As much as you can fight, For compliment so scurvy, You thought to make a farce on We're sure a single parson Is worth a hundred beaux. * Dr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster. F. And you would make us vassals, You would, you Thing of Things! Because around your cane A ring of diamonds is set; Shall we, of sense refin'd, We hate your empty prattle; And vow and swear 'tis true, THE BEAU'S REPLY TO THE FIVE LADIES ANSWER. WHY, HY, how now dapper black, I smell your gown and cassock, As Tisdal smells of a sock. A clergyman in the North of Ireland, who had made propesals of marriage to Stella. F. |