He did speedily find one more fat and more kind- But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maid— THE IRISHMAN. I. BLACKWOOD. THERE was a lady lived at Leith, A wild tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman. II. 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, rioting Irishman. III. 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. IV. 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 man. V. His name was a terrible name, indeed, And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch, The boozing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman. VI. 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! CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS. A cat I sing, of famous memory, Most categorical her virtues shone, Their lengths, like cattle after busy day, I melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to weep; 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, As fine as five-pence is her mien, As soft as pap her kisses are, As smooth as glass, as white as curds 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, 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, And warm as any toast. You'll know me truer than a die, Sure as a gun she 'll drop a tear REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENTALIST. THOMAS HOOD. "My Tables! Meat it is, I set it down!"-HAMLET. I THINK it was Spring-but not certain I am- |