LIFE IN IRELAND 85 



Of Irish beauties to bear off a sample, 



And leave behind — a devilish good example. 



The King advances. Ah ! he comes thro' Wales 



Attended by a thousand heads and tails, 



And many a tale, ah ! now unknown to song, 



With George shall sweep the Irish lyre along ; 



For honest George, when youthful Prince of Wales, 



Was always partial unto female tales, 



Such as are run through volumes by Miss Burney, 



Priscilla, Wakefield, or short-handed Gurney ; 



Perhaps old Sherry might his bosom fill 



With moral precepts drawn from Fanny Hill. 



There was a time, unknown to you or I, 



When Ireland boasted an unclouded sky, 



When honour led of every sect the van. 



And every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 



From Clontarf's sheds, forth to the battle flew 



Thousands w-ho perish'd with the brave Boru. 



Soul of the brave ! main spring in Ireland's soul ! 



Who bade the tide of freedom's battle roll ! 



Permit me here to breathe one solemn sigh 



To him who lays where all of us must lie ! 



Oft as I muse on Ireland's deeds of yore, 



And hear the billows strike her rock -bound shore. 



Firm as the rock, I sing, her sons remain, 



That back indignant drives the roaring main ; 



In peace as gentle as the lamb, whose eye 



Speaks blessings softer than a virgin's sigh ! 



Mild as the hour w'hen Hope first bless'd the brave, 



And love descended from the skies to save ; 



Spirit of Boru, ah ! in George it breathes ; 



Twine for him, Irish dames ! your brightest wreathes. 



No guards attend him, and no dark array 



Marshals his first advance to Dublin Bay ; 



Plam and unvarnish'd in a cloud of steam, 



Where cannons flash not, nor where sabres gleam. 



Behold the packet scrapes the trembling shore, 



Earth groans, air thunders, and the billows roar. 



