Classic Poem

The Attractions of a fashionable Irish Watering place.

The town of Passage
Is both large and spacious,
And situated
Upon the say.
'Tis nate and dacent,
And quite adjacent
To come from Cork
On a summer's day;
There you may slip in
To take a dipping,
Fornent the shipping
That at anchor ride;
Or in a wherry
Cross o'er the ferry
To Carrigaloe,
On the other side.

Mud cabins swarm in
This place so charming,
With sailor garments
Hung out to dry;
And each abode is
Snug and commodious,
With pigs melodious
In their straw-built sty.
'Tis there the turf is,
And lots of murphies,
Dead sprats and herrings,
And oyster shells;
Nor any lack, O!
Of good tobacco —
Though what is smuggled
By far exceis.

There are ships from Cadiz,
And from Barbadoes,
But the leading trade is
In whisky-punch;
And you may go in
Where one Molly Bowen
Keeps a nate hotel
For a quiet lunch.
But land or deck on,
You may safely reckon,
Whatsoever country
You come hither from,
On an invitation
To a jollification,
With a parish priest
That's called " Father Tom. "
Of ships there's one fixt
For lodging convicts,
A floating " stone Jug "
Of amazing bulk;
The hake and salmon,
Playing at bagammon,
Swim for divarsion
All round this " hulk; "
There " Saxon " jailors
Keep brave repailors,
Who soon with sailors
Must anchor weigh
From th' em'rald island,
Ne'er to see dry land,
Until they spy land
In sweet Bot'ny Bay.