LIFE IN IRELAND 113 



The ladies quack his tinder heart ; 



The Catholics quack his senses ; 

 The Protestants boast a healing art, 



To cure by false pretences. 



All scour him with the BLARNEY-STONE, 



And swear he 's fair and young ; 

 He thinks so too, though every bone 



And ' wither is unwrung. ' 



On Lady C to try my skill, 



I went to bleed and blister ; 

 But, ah ! I found she 'd got a pill 



From Est — h — y's sister. 



Old Harty too, of German paste 



Had ta'en so strong a dose, 

 She seems as running all to waist, 



And bursting from her clothes. 



':=> 



The Richmond steamboat too has burst. 

 Her boiler's running o'er : 



In short, like me no quack so curst 

 Exists on Ireland's shore. 



I might the ills of England cure 



By aid of hemp and steel, 

 But here my practice none endure — 



I 've lost the right to feel 



The pulses of those quondam dames 

 Who fann'd the fire of age, 



And now consum'd in envious flames. 

 At their old sweethearts rage. 



I 've danced with every Irish lass, 

 And drank with Irish boys, 



Till reeling drunk, and like an ass, 

 I stoop'd to brutish joys. 

 H 



