Black Moll beheld, and felt more grief no doubt,
Than if her husband's brains were dash'd about.
As Indian dames, their sons, or brothers slain,
In frantic gestures to their gods complain,
So to the skies her plaintive paws she spread,
Her eyes with fury starting from her head;
Then seized a tankard, which by chance was full,
Resolved to crush the crazy cobler's skull,
The tankard flies, but erring as it goes,
Falls like a bomb, on George the taylor's nose.
Ill fated youth! the darling of the fair,
For snuff, white stockings, and well powder'd hair;
In vain alas! the useful art he found,
To pinch his hat, and circumcise it round:
In dust he lay, the fustian frock he wore
Was drench'd with beer, and stained with purple gore: Now Munster Jack to his associates cries, See where my drone, unhappy victim! lies. So great a conquest shall a scoundrel boast? And shall my chaunter unrevenged be lost? As thick as watchmen to a rising flame, His dear comrades (all dear to mischief) came : At Tom they flew, (so dogs a bull surround) On his broad back their rattling cudgels bound. While Tom defenceless, for assistance calls, Full on his arm a ponderous cleaver falls; Down drops his chaunter, (once so soft and sweet) And the bag squeaks beneath its master's feet. 'Twas then Kate Kearney felt the dreadful fray, Where stretch'd at ease beside the road she lay, Not spent with too much toil, but overcome, By treach'rous Hermes, in the form of rum. With hair disorder'd in a thrice she rose, And saw Top Tip encompassed by his foes;
Tom once so dear! henceforth ye nymphs be brave!
And learn, like Kate, your lovers' lives to save.
With strength endued, tho' frail about her waist,
A beggar's crutch she snatched with furious haste,
Fierce as a bitch, whose whelps are stolen away,
The young virago mingled in the fray:
Her stiff strong arms the jostling crowd divide,
And strokes on strokes she deals on ev'ry side.
First Nic the barber felt her vengeful ire,
Nic the gay cricket of each neighbour's fire;
Whose merry tales make mournful faces bright,
The miller's solace, and the smith's delight.
Next on a pedagogue her fury fell,
Who thought Alecto was let loose from hell.
No trope nor figure could her rage withstand,
And sure each neighbour schoolboy blest her hand.
As Dick the dancer rolled his watchful eye,
Trembling with fear, and yet ashamed to fly,
Prostrate he sunk beneath a thund'ring stroke,
His arm was batter'd, and his strings were broke.
Who now alas! shall charm the vulgar crew,
With strains which Handel or Duburgh ne'er knew;
Ah can his labours be so soon forgot?
Spare him O Kate who taught thee first to trot.
Nor could Black Tim, without a wound escape,
A fresh young shepherd of a comely shape,
Whose lungs are strong, although his arms be weak,
And on his lips the Jew harp seems to speak.
What grief, Black Moll! thy tender bosom tore
To see thy brother welt'ring in his gore?
Yet not in fruitless tears that grief was spent,
To sweet revenge her rising wrath she bent.
With all her might she struck the unguarded foe,
The cudgel cracked, Kate reel'd beneath the blow,
'Till, like a tree that struggles with the blast,
And falls uprooted by the storm at last,
Headlong she fell before the gazing crowd,
O! had the moon been hid behind a cloud.
Now Moll exulting urged her friend to rise,
And chear'd the rest with animating cries.
Not sturdy Sancho in a blanket tost,
Nor e'en Don Quixote when his teeth he lost,
Felt such resentment as this warlike band,
All sorely wounded by a female hand.
At helpless Kate a shower of dirt was thrown,
And all their rage was aim'd at her alone.
Straight th' adverse party to her rescue flew,
The tumult spread, the battle blazed anew,
Shouts follow'd shouts, taught ev'ry throat to roar,
And those engag'd, that shun'd the fray before.
Thicker than fops that for precedence strive,
Thicker than bees, when crowding to their hive,
They mix'd in fight, a wild tempestuous throng,
Stick clash'd with stick, and clown drove clown along.
Kate roar'd for help; (not sailors half so loud,
When the red lightnings flash from shroud to shroud,)
Nor cries nor tears her brutal foes could charm,
One seiz'd her leg, one fasten'd on her arm.
To Heaven at length, with upward eyes she pray'd,
And Heaven sure loves a charitable maid:
For lo! descending from his steed appear'd
The rough good priest, whom all his people fear'd.
His lash he whirl'd amidst the warring crew,
The clamour ceas'd, the combatants withdrew.
With wrathful eyes he view'd the dismal scene,
Hats, hoods, cloaks, cravats, scatter'd o'er the green!
Then fir'd with zeal, the list'ning crowd he charg'd,
And chose a text, and on that text enlarg'd:
"Beer makes young men the foulest crimes commit;
"Ah! think what Lot did in a drunken fit!"
Moll broached a cask.-The man of God drew nigh,
For after preaching ev'ry pipe is dry.
Around their guardian flock'd the wounded swains,
And beer and music banish'd all their pains.
The social pipe diffus'd a grateful smoak,
The milk-maid laugh'd, the ploughman crack'd his joke.
Tom Tip and Jack, eternal friendship swore,
And Moll embrac'd her gossips o'er and o'er.
The skilful Dick, once more his art display'd,
While Tom with Kate a tuneful concert made.
Each am'rous heart was tickl'd with the sound,
And kisses strait, instead of kicks, went round.
At length the cask was drain'd of all its store,
(How Moll was curs'd, when she could give no more)
Each guest departed with an aching head,
And rising Phoebus lighted all to bed.
-Quis talia fando
Temperet a lacrymis?
The humble petition of Cornelius O'Clummughan,* the famous poor scholar, to the priest of the parish.
That I went to Ballynahan th'other day ('twas Sunday morning I remember,
For I was not there you must know, before, since the latter end of September,)
There was a desperate fire in the kitchen; so myself sat down very snug,
'Till Miss Peggy (God bless her) came down, and brought me the bracket jug.
* Clummughan is a rough, ugly, fellow.
"Is that Cornelius," says she, " 'tis good for sore eyes to see the stranger."
"'Twas the want of health, madam," says myself, "that
"I travell'd many a weary step between Caltragh and Kinclare,
"And went to Ballinlass itself, but Doctor Dillon was not there."
"He's here in the house," says she, " as good a man as ever trod in leather,
"For he cures all the common people without asking a feather."
"Common people!" says myself, "I know what that expression means:"
"Pardon me, Cornelius," says she, "to be sure there is good blood in your veins :"
"The O'Clummughans, madam," says myself, "are the most populous people in the land;"
"Indeed I meant no harm," says Miss Peggy, so with that she shook my hand.
Then I went up to the parlour; and to be sure they were all very glad,
"Your welcome," says Master Lacky, (indeed a very courteous lad.)
Then the doctor looked at myself, as who should say, "what brought you here?"
"Most noble sir!" says myself, "I'm sick these three quarters of a year:
"My father wore cloth of gold, although myself be clad in a homely frize,”
"That's not the thing," says the doctor, "but tell me where your disorder lies."
"Why, sir, you must know," says I, "that I was three years and a half with Mr. Dunn;
"As stout a scholar, by St. Bridget, as ever saw the noon day sun;
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