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No money left for fquand'ring heirs !

Bills turn the lenders into debtors:
The wish of Nero now is theirs,
That they had never known their letters *.

Conceive the works of midnight-hags,

Tormenting fools behind their backs :
Thus bankers o'er their bills and bags
Sit squeezing images of waxt.

Conceive the whole inchantment broke;

The witches left in open air,
With pow'r no more than other folk,

35 Expos'd with all their magic ware.

So powerful are a banker's bills,

· Where creditors demand their due ; They break up counters, doors, and tills, And leave the empty chests in view.

Thus when an earthquake lets in light

Upon the god of gold and bell,
Unable to endure the fight,
He hides within his dark eft cell.

As when a conj'rer takes a lease

From Satan for a term of years,
The tenant's in a dismal case,

Whene'er the bloody bond appears 1.

It is said of Nero, that when he first came to the imperial dignity from the tutorage of Seneca, being asked to lign a warrant for an execution, he wilhed he could not write. Hawkes.

+ Witches were fabled to torment the absent, by roasting or o. therways ill treating their images in wax. Hawkes.

# These contracts were always supposed to be signed witla blood. Hawkes:

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Bless you late and early,
Laughlin O Enagin,
By my hand *, you dance rarely,
Margery Grinagin t.
Bring straw for our bed,
Shake it down to the feet,
Then over us spread
The winnowing sheet':
To show I don't finch,
Fill the bowl up again ;
Then give us a pinch
Of your sneezing, a yean I.
Good Lord, what a fight,
After all their good cheer,
For people to fight
In the midst of their beer
They rise from their feast,
And hot are their brains,
A cubit at least
The length of their skeans 1l.
What stabs and what cuts,
What clatt'ring of sticks ;
What strokes on the guts,
What bastings and kicks !
With cudgels of oak
Well harden'd in Aame
An hundred heads broke,
An hundred ftruck lame.
You churl, I'll maintain
My father built Luik,
The castle of Slain,
And Carrick Drumrusk :





* An Irish oath..
+ The name of an Irish woman.
* An Irish word for a woman,

Daggers, or lhort Swords.


The Earl of Kildare
And Moynalta, his brother,
As great as they are,
I was nurs'd by their mothert.
Ak that of old Madam,
She'll tell


who's who,
As far up as Adam,
She knows it is true.
Come down with that beam,
If cudgels are scarce,
A blow on the weam,
Or a kick on the a se.


A French gentleman dining with some company on a

faft-day, called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved him for fo hainous a fin; whereupon he wrote the following lines extempore; which are here translated.

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WHO can believe with common sense,

A bacon-slice gives God offence,
Or how a herring hath a charm
Almighty vengeance to disarm?
Wrapt up in majesty divine,
Does he regard on what we dine ?
Vol. VI.

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+ It is the custom in Ireland, to call nurses foster-mothers, their husbands foster-fathers, and their children foster-brothers or oster-listers : and thus the poorest claim kindred to the richoft.



XIII. A baited banker thus despond's,

From his own hand foresees his fall ; They have his soul who have his bonds ; 'Tis like the writing on the wall*.

How will the caitiff wretch be scar'd,

When first he finds himself awake
At the last trumpet, unprepar'd,
And all his grand account to make ?

For in that universal.call

Few bankers will to heaven be mounters ::
They'll cry, Ye shops upon us fall,
Conceal and cover us, ye counters :

66 XVI. When other hands the frales shall hold,

And they in men and angels fight Produc'd with all tlieir bills and gold,

Weigh'd in the balance, and found light. The DESCRIPTION of an Irish FEAST, trans

lated almost literally out of the original Irish.

Translated in the year 1720.



Rourk's noble fare

Will ne'er be forgot,
By those who were there,
Or those who were not.
His revels to keep,
: We sup and we dine
On seven score începe
Fat builocks and swine.
Usquebaugh to our feast
In paiis was brought up,
• Mene mene tekel iphurfiri.



our cup:




An hundred at least,
And a madder
Othere is the sport !
We rise with the light
In disorderly fort
From snoring all night.
O how was I trick'd!
My pipe it was broke,
My pocket was pick’d,
I lost my new cloak.
I'm rifled, quoth Nell,
Of mantle and Kercher + :
Why then fare them well,
The de’il take the searcher.
Come, harper, strike up;
But, first, by your favour,
Boy, give us a cup :
Ah! this has some favour.

Rourk’s jolly boys
Ne'er dream'd of the matter,
Till rous'd by the noise
And musical clatter,
They bounce from their neft,
No longer will tarry,
They rise ready dreft,
Without an Ave Mary.
They dance in a round,
Cutting capers and ramping ;
A mercy the ground
Did not burst with their stamping.
The floor is all wet
With leaps and with jumps,
While the water and sweat
Splish splash in their pumps.


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A wooden vessel.
An handkerchief.

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