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He did speedily find one more fat and more kind-
Plumpaty, plumpaty, plump-

But poor Dolly 's afraid she must die an old maid-
Mumpaty, mumpaty, mump.




THERE was a lady lived at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man,
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman,
A nasty, ugly Irishman,

A wild tremendous Irishman,

A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.


His face was no ways beautiful,

For with small-pox 't was scarred across:

And the shoulders of the ugly dog

Were almost doubled a yard across.
O the lump of an Irishman,

The whiskey devouring Irishman

The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, riot

ing Irishman.


One of his eyes was bottle green,

And the other eye was out, my dear;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear,
O, the great big Irishman,

The rattling, battling Irishman

The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash

of an Irishman.


He took so much of Lundy-foot,

That he used to snort and snuffle-O,

And in shape and size the fellow's neck

Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.
O, the horrible Irishman,

The thundering, blundering Irishman

The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irish



His name was a terrible name, indeed,

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;

And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch,

He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again,

The boozing, bruising Irishman,

The 'toxicated Irishman

The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.


This was the lad the lady loved,

Like all the girls of quality;

And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,

Just by the way of jollity,

O, the leathering Irishman,

The barbarous, savage Irishman—

The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman.


A cat I sing, of famous memory,
Though catachrestical my song may be;
In a small garden catacomb she lies,
And cataclysms fill her comrades' eyes;
Borne on the air, the catacoustic song
Swells with her virtues' catalogue along;
No cataplasm could lengthen out her years,
Though mourning friends shed cataracts of tears.
Once loud and strong her catechist-like voice
It dwindled to a catcall's squeaking noise;

Most categorical her virtues shone,
By catenation join'd each one to one;-
But a vile catchpoll dog, with cruel bite,
Like catling's cut, her strength disabled quite;
Her caterwauling pierced the heavy air,
As cataphracts their arms through legions bear;
'Tis vain! as caterpillars drag away

Their lengths, like cattle after busy day,
She ling'ring died, nor left in kit kat the
Embodyment of this catastrophe.

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I melancholy as a cat,
Am kept awake to weep;
But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of Love at her approach
Is busy as a bee;

Hearts sound as any bell or roach,
Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail
The fine men crowd about her;
But soon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears, O were we join'd together!

My heart would be scot-free from cares, And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are,

Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair,

Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds
Her pretty hand invites;
Sharp as her needle are her words,
Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king:

Good Lord! how all men envied me!
She loved like any thing.

But false as hell, she, like the wind,
Chang'd, as her sex must do;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru!
Great as an Emperor should I be,
And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post;
Let us like burs together stick,
And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die,
And wish me better sped;
Flat as a flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she 'll drop a tear

And sigh, perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fish.



"My Tobles! Meat it is, I set it down!"-HAMLET.

I THINK it was Spring-but not certain I am-
When my passion began first to work;
But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,
And the season was over for pork.

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