56 LIFE IN IRELAND 



As he who stops the honest folks 

 In pleasure's pathway toiling, 



Deserves to be in iron yokes 

 On hell's gridiron broiling. 



From Brian Boru counsel take, 



Altho' he comes from Galway, 

 His med'cine cures the stomach ache, 



And love pains in a small way ; 

 For if you crack a watchman's scran 



(And sport it would afford here), 

 The judge would make the brute a man 



And hang you for his MURDER ! 



On every side rise, Irishmen ! 



For one and all you hate them, 

 Like turf spat, count them off by ten, 



And never over-rate them. 

 * Down, down with watchmen I ' be the cry, 



Those enemies to joy, Sir, 

 At night then Irish girls may fly 



To meet their Irish boys, Sir. 



Brian and his friend both rose with aching heads in 

 the morning, and hastened, as bound in honour, to 

 appear before the Lord Mayor of Dubhn, and answer 

 the charges to be made against them by the Dame- 

 street heroes. It is waste of time to describe the 

 Mayor, or his hall of audience. Which amongst us has 

 not seen an ould spatter-dashed bog-t7'otter counting his 

 pigs on a Saturday night in the gable-end room of his 

 cabin, wid a hole in the top to let in the air and let out 

 the smoke ? I say no more ; comparisons are odious ; 

 I mustn't meedle with big folks ; be it so. None of 

 the watchmen appeared ; tirtee^i were ashamed to say 



