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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.
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.
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,
In at the pantry door this morn I slipt,
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. + Halfpennyworth. F. | Sir Arthur's butler. I
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 † comesc Then let us rise, and rest our weary bums.
FIVE LADIES AT SO T'S-HOLE f.
WITH THE DOCTORS AT THEIR HEAD.
SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 1728,
Fair ladies, number five,
Who, in your merry freaks,
To feast on ale and steaks;
* Shoes with Aat low heels. F. + A sort of fummery. F. I An alehouse in Dublin famous for beef-steaks. F,
Dr. Thomas Sheridan. 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;
daub'd so foul, They'll be no more like Graces,
Than Venus like an owl. And we shall take you rather
To be a midnight pack Of witches met together,
With Beelzebub in black. It fills
heart with woe, To think, such ladies fine Should be reduc'd so low,
To treat á dull divine. 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, Instead of powder'd beaux,
From pulpits choose gallants. If we, who wear our wigs
With fantail and with snake, Are bubbled thus by prigs;
2-ds! who would be a rake?
Had I a heart to fight,
I'd knock the doctor down;
Egad! I'd wear a gown,
And at the Rose on Sunday,
I'll treat you with burgundy,
THE FIVE LADIES ANSWER TO THE BEAU,
BY DR. SHERIDAN.
WITH THL WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD.
You little scribbling beau,
What demon made you write?
I wish we had you here;
Into a mug of beer.
The man and place we chose;
Is worth a hundred beaux.
* Pr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster. F.
would make us vassals,
You would, you Thing of Thingsi
A ring of diamonds is set;
you, in some by lane,
Your trifling nonsense bear,
As empty as the air?
And vow and swear 'tis true,
Than twenty fops like you.
THE BEAU'S REPLY
TO THE FIVE LADIES ANSWER.
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.