Classic Poem

XIV.

Hail to our chief! now he's wet through with whisky;
Long life to the lady come from the salt seas!
Strike up, blind harpers! skip high to be frisky!
For what is so gay as a bagful of fleas?
Crest of O'Shaughnashane! —
That's a potato plain —
Long may your root every Irishman know!
Pats long have struck to it,
Long bid good luck to it;
Whack for O'Shaughnashane! — Tooleywhagg ho!

XV.

Ours is an esculent lusty and lasting;
No turnip nor other weak babe of the ground;
Waxy or mealy it hinders from fasting
Half Erin's inhabitants all the year round.
Wants the soil where 'tis flung,
Hog's, cow's, or horse's dung,
Still does the crest of O'Shaughnashane grow:
Shout for it, Ulster men,
Till the bogs quake again!
Whack for O'Shaughnashane! — Tooleywhagg ho!

XVI.

Drink, Paddies, drink to the Lady so shining!
While floweret shall open and bog-trotter dig,
So long may the sweet Rose of Beauty be twining
Around the potato of proud Blarneygig!
While the plant vegetates,
While whisky recreates,
Wash down the root from the horns that o'erflow;
Shake your shillelahs, boys,
Screeching drunk scream your joys,
Whack for O'Shaughnashane! — Tooleywhagg ho!

XVII.

Time rolls his course; — now seems in haste,
And now seems slow — as cooks roll paste;
Rolling out vows from human dust,
Soon to be broken, soon as crust!
All under Time to rum falls,
Like Blarneygig's now mouldered walls.
The lover's and the dicer's oath,
The patriot's — falser far than both! —
As places, luck, and love decay,
Like fleeting visions pass away;
Nay, e'en thy holy nuns, Kildare,
Were doomed Time's rolling-pin to share!
In thy chaste glooms, though vestals swore
To feed a flame for evermore,
No flame unsanctifiedly light,
But on St. Bridget's altar bright —
E'en that — yes, e'en perpetual fire
(At least in Ireland) could expire;
When England's King the Pope to rout,
Both fire and nuns at once put out.
No wonder then when three long years
Had rolled their course o'er mortal ears,
The Lady of the Wreck should mark,
Since first she swung up in the dark,
Affection wofully to flag
In all she prized — Sir Tooleywhagg.

XVIII.

The grief of slighted love suppressed,
Scarce dulled her eye, scarce heaved her breast;
Or if a tear she strove to check,
A truant tear stole down her neck;
It seemed a drop that with his bill
The linnet scatters from a rill,
Flirting his sweet and tiny shower
Upon a milk-white April flower.
Or if a sigh, breathed soft and low,
Escaped her fragrant lips, e'en so
The zephyr will in heat of day
Between two rose-leaves fan its way.
Not thus the knight his tedium brooked,
Whene'er he from his peep-hole looked.
Oft as he looked, still high in air,
He saw the bucket dangling there,
Then heaved no sigh, but gave a groan,
And grunted loud, " Och hone! Och hone! "
" Och hone! " he cried, " my pleasure's cup
Was full that night I wound her up!
How will that night my pleasures crown,
If e'er it come I wind her down! "
Ne'er came that night of joy; but oh!
Soon came a moment full of woe;
A moment horror-fraught! which oft
On the black peak of Klintertoft,
Beneath whose base the waters howl,
Is boded by the fatal owl.

XIX.

Who best in cattle and domain,
Could vie with the O'Shaughnashane?
Who but the chief of stature tall,
Baron Fitz Gallyhogmagawl?
The vulture in his sweeping flight
Sailed leagues and kept his grounds in sight;
Nor could the swiftest roebuck run
Across his land 'twixt sun and sun:
His towers were bosomed high in wood,
And at his gate fierce wolf dogs stood.
He had a daughter passing fair,
Once buxom, blithe, and debonair;
A year had flown since first it chanced
With Blarneygig's bold knight she danced;
From that time forth to bowers she crept,
There pined in thought and silent wept.
Her father, who from day to day
Observed his daughter's health decay,
Questioned her close; she made a pause,
Blushed deep, then faltering owned the cause;
Owned all that made her spirits flag
Was — thinking on Sir Tooleywhagg.
" Cease, Judy! " cried the Baron, " cease
" To grieve, for much I prize your peace! "
A hint, although the point was nice,
Brought the wished bridegroom in a trice;
For both desire and interest swayed
The ready knight to wed the maid;
And his resolves in accents cold,
The Lady of the Wreck he told.

XX.

She heard, and pallid grew her cheek,
Nor did she soon essay to speak.
Her fiery eyeball shot a gleam
That scarce from mortal eye could stream;
Her ghastly form assumed the cast
Of withering spectres when they blast.
At length, as tight his hand she grasped,
And with a ring his finger clasped,
A dismal hollow laugh she gave,
Like sounds that issue from a grave.
" Thy bridal couch, " she cried, " bedeck
Far from the Lady of the Wreck;
But oh, beware! this ring, false heart!
Must never from thy finger part;
When off 'tis taken " — she could no more,
But headlong to the billows' roar
Sprang from his chamber to the shore.
The while her fearful leap she took,
'Tis said the Giant's Causeway shook;
Death on the waves to meet her rolled,
And wrapt her in a watery fold.