LIFE IN IRELAND 55 



Like Stafford Street there is no place 



For pleasure in dear Dublin, 

 'Tis there amongst the babes of grace 



(Your conscience never troubling) 

 You '11 surely find an empty purse, 



Likewise an aching head, Sir, 

 And surely you the day will curse 



You went at night to bed, Sir. 



The trouble too of creeping home, 



As if you were an ass. Sir, 

 With hawker's licence meant to roam, 



Or beggar with a pass. Sir ; 

 By police rogues — by soldiers stopt. 



Demanding who you are, Sir, 

 Gaz'd at as though a rebel cropt, 



A lion, or a bear, Sir. 



Ensnar'd in many awkward toils 



By those who strive to catch men, 

 When napping and engag'd in broils 



With thundering lazy watchmen ; 

 Bad luck to all the vill'nous set, 



They keep the street in riot. 

 But we '11 be down upon 'em yet. 



And bang them till they 're quiet. 



They wake you forty times a night 



With hoarse and hideous squalling. 

 They wake even children in a fright. 



Like cats a caterwauling. 

 Now in the street, now in the yard, 



A man can't to a girl go. 

 Without the Watchman's fond regard 



He 's always on the sly go. 



If any one 's the watchman's friend, 



He is the Devil's too, Sir ; 

 I wish the world were at an end. 



For him to get his due. Sir ; 



