POETRY.
SHEELAH'S REMONSTRANCE.
Anuml, Pat, foolish Pat ! one might walk the world through, And not meet a boy so conta-airy as you ; 'Tis in Ireland alone, this bright gim of the whole, That a man so takes either a crab or a mole.
Yes, backward or downward your bent is to go, In the silly conceit you're outwittin' a foe, Till you find, when you end your nonsensical journey, You've only got shut of your friends,—devil burn ye !
You've a mighty fine tongue, and your stick is still ready ; But you seldom look straight, and your hands are unsteady, So that if you're set down 'twixt a rogue and your brother, You stand trate to the first, and shillelagh the other.
Here now, when strong friends kindly ways are purshuin', To save you and me from starvation and ruin, Whew ! down go like lightnin' the tails your coat,* Bekase they'd " coerce " you from cuttin' your throat.
And, Pat, I don't rilish your new kind o' fightin' ; 'Tis not the bould sort that you used to delight in ; 'Tis not like ould Donnybrook, (glory be in it !) Where you knocked down your man, or got felled in a minute.
Your inimies' heads then you quickly were breakin', But now your long blethers but set them an achin' ; And unable to thrash, a vile scrimmage you're keepin', To hindher the stupified cratures from sleepin'.
Ach, Pat will you never have done with your folly P Have you gumption no more than this kittin and collie ? Do you think while you're sittin' the cowld and the dark in, You'll git warmth and light by just mewin' and barkin' ?
Do you really conceive it's a sinsible action 'To drive friend and foe to the verge of distraction, 'Till they're made to agree you so peather and rile 'em, That to save their own wits, you must go to the 'sylum ?
'The shamrock has three leaves, and why not unite With John Bull and Sawney, to do yourself right If they would but back you, I heard a man bettin', Not the " three F's " alone, but "K.G.'s " you'd be gettin'.
Ah ! could I bring back to your lost recollection But two things, but two !—common-rinse and affection, Deludhers no more your poor brains would bewildher,— You'd think o' me, Paddy, you'd think o' the childer.
P.S.—Wirrasthrue wirrasthrue I'm every limb shakin' ; One " Spaker," I'm tould, has just put you past spakin' ; 4' Short Commons" has killed you, by others 'tie said; Write quick, Paddy, darlin', and say if you're dead.
February 3rd. J. S. D.
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