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She 's now as handsome every bit,
And has a thousand times her wit.
The Dean and Sheridan, I hope,
Will half supply a Gay and Pope.
Corbet *, thougli yet I know his worth not,
No doubt, will prove a good Arbuthnot.
I throw into the bargain Tim ;
In London can you equal him?
What think


of favourite clan, Robin t, and "Jack, and Jack and Dan; Fellows of modest worth and parts, With chearful looks and honest hearts ? Can you

on Dublin look with scorn ? Yet here were you and Ormond born.

Oh! were but you and I so wife,
To fee with Robert Grattan's eyes !
Robin adores that spot of earth,
That literal spot which gave him birth;
And swears, “ Belcamp I is, to his taste,
“ As fine as Hampton-court at least.”
When to your



would enhance
The praise of Italy or France;
For grandeur, elegance, and wit,
We gladly hear you, and submit:
But then, to come and keep a clutter,
For this or that side of a gutter,

* Dr. Corbet, afterwards dean of St. Patrick's. + R. and J. Grattan, and J. and D. Jackson.

In Fingall, about five miles from Dublin.

To live in this or other isle,
We cannot think it worth your while ;
For, take it kindly or amiss,
The difference but amounts to this,
We bury on our side the channel
In linen; and on your's in flannel *.
You for the news are ne'er to seek;
While we, perhaps, may wait a week :
You happy folks are sure to meet
An hundred whores in


street; While we may trace all Dublin o'er Before we find out half a score.

You fee my arguments are strong;
I wonder you held out so long:
But, since you are convinc'd at last,
We 'll pardon you for what is past.
So - let us now for whist prepare ;
Twelve-pence a corner, if you dare.

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OAN cudgels Ned, yet Ned 's a bully;

Will cudgels Bess, yet Will 's a cully.
Die Ned and Befs ; give Will to Joan,
She dares not say her life 's her own.
Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned,

every day the combs his head. * The law for burying in woolen was extended to Ireland in 1733 3


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Since cruel fate hath funk our justice Boat.
Why should he fink, where nothing seem'd to pressz
His lading little, and his ballast less?
Tot in the waves of this tempestuous world,
At length, his anchor fixt and canvas furl'd,
To Lazy-hill * retiring from his court,
At his Ring's-end * he founders in the port.
With water + fillid, he could no longer float,
The common death of many a stronger boat.

A post so fill'd on nature's laws entrenches :
Benches on baats are plac'd, not boats on benches.
And yet our Boat (how shall I reconcile it?)
Was both a Boat, and in one sense a pilot.

every wind he faild, and well could tack:-
Had many pendents, but abhorr'd a Jack [.
He's gone, although his friends began to hope,
That he might yet be lifted by a rope.

Behold the awful bench, on which he sat !
He was as bard and ponderous wood as that:
Yet, when his fand was out, we find at lasty.
That death has over set him with a blast.

* Two villages near the sea.
+ It was said he died of a dropsy.
I A cant word for a Jacobite.


Our Boat is now saild to the Stygian ferry,
There to supply old Charon's leaky wherry :
Charon in him will ferry souls to hell;
A trade our Boat * hath practis'd here so well:
And Cerberus hath ready in his paws
Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws.
Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain
We'may place Boat in his old poft again..
The way is thus; and well deserves your thanks:
Take the three strongest of his broken planks,
Fix them on high, conspicuous to be seen,
Form'd like the triple-tree near Stephen's-green ti
And, when we view it thus with thief at end on 't,
We'll cry; look, here's our Boat, and there's the pendant,

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HER E lies judge Boat within a coffin ;
Pray, gentle-folks, forbear your scoffing.
A Boat a judge ! yes ; where's the blunder?
A wooden judge is no such wonder.
And in his robes, you

must agree,
No Boat was better deckt than he.
"Tis needless to describe him fuller;.
In short, he was an able sculler.

* In condemning malefactors, as a judge.
+ Where the Dublin gallows stands.


FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows ;

But who thy father, no mau knows :-
Nor can the skilful herald trace
The founder of thy ancient race ;,
Whether thy temper, full of fire, .
Discovers Vulcan for thy fire,
The god who made Scamander boil,
And round his margin fing'd the soil.
(From whence, philosophers agree,
An equal power descends to thee);
Whether from dreadful Mars


The high descent from whence you came,
And, as a proof, shew numerous scars.
By fierce encounters made in wars,
Those honourable wounds you. bore
From head to foot, and all before,
And still the bloody field frequent,
Familiar in each leader's tent ;
Or whether, as the learn'd contend,
You from the neighbouring Gaul descend;
Or from Parthenope the proud,
Where numberless thy votaries croud ;
Whether thy great forefathers came
From realms that bear Vefputio's name
(For so conjecturers would obtrude ;
And from thy painted skin conclude);
* This name is plainly an anagram.


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