With gills of noblest usquebaugh

Will we anoint thy epitaph;

While thou at the full bowl shalt laugh,

A precious meed:

At last thou liest in harbour safe;

Sage Johnny's dead.

News shall no more thy mornings muzzle,
Or schemes good spirit-punch to guzzle ;
Wounds! thou art past this mortal bustle,
With manna fed;

Satan and thou hadst a long tussel;

At last thou'rt dead.

May blessings light upon thy gloom,
And geese grow fat upon thy tomb.!
While no rash scribbler's impious thumb.

Shall maul thy head;

Though thou art dead.

But greet thee soft in kingdom come,'

POSTSCRIPT.

After inditing these sad stories,

I hap'd to hear some brother tories.

Ranting and roaring loud at Lory's,*

Not quite well bred;

I enter'd, and exclaim'd, ' Ye glories,

John Baynham's dead.'

Scarce had I spoke, when 'neath the table
Something sigh'd out most lamentable :
Anon, to make my song a fable,

Starts out brave John;

Sitting, by Jove above! most stable

On wicked throne.

They press'd my sitting: marv'lous dull,
I gap'd at Banquo like a fool,

And cried Good sirs, the table's full,

And there's a spirit,'

'Come reach,' quoth sprite, an easy stool:'

And lent a wherret.

'You rogue,' said he,

how dare you write

Such stuff on me, as dead outright;

Lory was another of his associates. He kept a public-house ; where the tradesmen of the village assembled, with the parish-clerk John Baynham, and Dermody as their oracle.

I think, by this good candle-light,

You've earn'd a drubbing."

C Pho! peace,' said I, I'll blot it quite;
Aye, by St. Dobbin."

Witness therefore, by my small finger,
John chooses still on earth to linger,
As penman, poet, toper, singer,

In trade full thriving;

Know then, old bellman, barber, tinker,

John Baynham's living.

WILL GORMAN,

THE KILLEIGH WEAVER.

A piteous elegy, indeed,

Endited sad on gabbling Gorman;

Who, from his loom and shuttle freed,
Took voyage for the Stygian shore, man.

SO dapper was he in his size,

That midnight gossips would surmise
Some fay did blind his mother's eyes,

And stint him short;

Yet would he merry tales devise

*

With mickle sport.

The Killeigh Mercury he was,

Το

pen songs on the corner-cross; Or lay them on the pump across,

With cautious look.

l' faith, we have a piteous loss,

Since he forsook.

* Much.

When o'er his loom the great mon* sat,
He'd verses make on this or that,

On Norah's stockings, Nelly's hat,

Or Nancy's garters ;

Or satires pen black as my hat,

And cut in quarters.

Not Hudibras himself was greater
In forging Babylonish metre ;
Rebus he'd fix on any creature,

And ne'er the worse:

I think his numscull was completer

Stor'd than his purse.

Know then (for him you'll ne'er ken more, man), Here lies the shell-work of Will Gorman.

* Man.