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, Satan and thou hadst a long tussel; At last thou'rt dead. May blessings light upon thy gloom, 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 Starts out brave John; Sitting, by Jove above! most stable On wicked throne. They press'd my sitting: marv'lous dull, 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; Witness therefore, by my small finger, 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, SO dapper was he in his size, That midnight gossips would surmise 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, 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 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. |