LIFE IN IRELAND 8i 



the president. Don't the fellow who wrote this deserve 

 to be put under a course of military execution at the 



halberts? 'Tis a d d odd sort of an Ode; I'll 



read it, and then say if the pillory is not too good for 

 the writer.' 



A STEAM-PACKET ODE 



OCCASIONALLY STRUCK BY LIGHTNING 



Hush'd be every ruder breath, 



Still as in the arms of death ; 



Hark ! heard ye not yon footstep dread, 



That shook the earth with thund'ring tread ? 



'Twas George descending from the blast 



Of steam, that scorch'd the Lightning' s mast. 



I mark'd his wig, 



Portentous big. 

 His whiskers glued from ear to ear, 



His snout turn'd upward like a pig 

 That sneer'd, and snuff' d the Irish air. 



From Conway's height he labour'd down, 



On Anglesea his weight descends, 

 Plinlimmon sinks beneath his frown, 



Gwindu low in dust attends. 



Lo ! he wags his jolly sides. 

 O'er Holyhead he gaily strides ! 

 Mounts the packet, stems the tides. 



And hastes to Ireland's shore. 

 Skinner, with his single arm, 

 Keeps his body from all harm ; 

 The King's at Howth with power to charm 

 s Who never charm'd before. 



