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He did speedily find one more fat and more kind-
But poor Dolly 's afraid she must die an old maid-
THERE was a lady lived at Leith,
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.
The whiskey devouring Irishman
The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, riot
One of his eyes was bottle green,
And the other eye was out, my dear;
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.
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 CATALECTIC MONODY!
A cat I sing, of famous memory,
Most categorical her virtues shone,
Their lengths, like cattle after busy day,
I melancholy as a cat,
Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
The god of Love at her approach
Hearts sound as any bell or roach,
Ah me! as thick as hops or hail
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,
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
Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Full as an egg was I with glee,
Good Lord! how all men envied me!
But false as hell, she, like the wind,
If I and Molly could agree,
Let who would take Peru!
Till you grow tender as a chick,
You'll know me truer than a die,
Sure as a gun she 'll drop a tear
And sigh, perhaps, and wish,
REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENTALIST.
"My Tobles! Meat it is, I set it down!"-HAMLET.
I THINK it was Spring-but not certain I am-