24 LIFE IN IRELAND 



No reflections 

 On complexions, 

 Be they ever so pale ; 



His lovely bottle nose, 

 Once as red as a rose, 

 Is as white as the cheeks 

 That quiver when he speaks — 

 Oh ! God in pity help thee, poor Lord 



******** 



' He that fights and runs away, 

 Is better off than those that stay,' 



was his lordship's favourite motto, and in the Custom 

 House he proved a gallant commander; he could 

 handle Spence's Hydrometer more easily than a sword, 

 and was a better judge of the spirit of whiskey than the 

 spirit of valour. His eldest son, with a high title and 

 a low purse, wandered about the streets of Dublin like 

 a discontented ghost on the banks of the Styx, walked 

 through the castle yard to beg an audience of the 

 Secretary's clerk, and then boasted he had been to see 

 his frie fid the Lord Lieutenant; had a sh'rl for dinner 

 at the cookshop in Mabbot Street, took an afternoon 

 glass of plain punch at D'Arcy's in Earl Street, where 



he d d Catholic emancipation, Counsellor O'Connel, 



and Parson Hay; eulogized the glorious memory of King 

 William, changed his tenpenny, and rambled into Sally 

 Maclean's to talk (only) with the bantlings ; and if he 

 had fortunately procured an order from Talbot by prais- 

 ing the faded charms of Emily Binden, or from Freddy 

 Jones by writing verses in praise of his hams stewed in 

 Madeira, he shewed himself in the stage box at the 

 theatre, where he hissed O'Neil and applauded Walstein, 

 calUng so often for 'God Save the King!' that you 

 would think the Devil had nearly got fast hold of His 



