Imagination Cove, Melancholy Ocean,
SOME countries are famed for their wines or their women,
And some for what has been, and some for what's coming ;
But old Ireland's a place that can boast, I'm a thinking,
Of things even finer than lasses or drinking ;
And wherever I look at the past or the present,
There's nothing that isn't entirely pleasant.
'Tis a beautiful isle circled round by the sea,
And where are the islanders favoured as we ?
For first we're as free as the air or the waves,
And next we've the pleasure of thinking we're slaves ;
And no Celt that was sane was e'er yet so demented
That he hadn't a soul above being contented.
At the feasts of my counthry there's whisky in reason,
If you've not much to say you can always talk treason :
Besides then the Saxons, bad cess to them, ever
To please and divert us make every endeavour.
There's always a meeting of one kind or t'other,
Where first we all peaceably fight with each other ;
And before we've had time to get weary, a drum
Is heard, and next moment the soldiers they come.
They ride through the market the iligant men,
The light flashing back from their lances, and then
They've hearts in their bosoms so easily melted,
That they all in good order stand up to be pelted,
Till we feel like our ancestors famous in story,
And get home safe with appetites sharpened by glory.
Billy Gladstone, he hears it the very same night,
If he weren't so religious he'd swear with delight ;
While John Bright he leaves his potatoes half eaten
To read of his countrymen being well beaten.
Should a hasty recruit prick a boy with his spear,
Why cut-throat and Cossack's the best words they hear;
The ' Irishman ' nibs its particular pen,
'Tis taken up sharp by our Parliament men ;
The 'Spectator' is shocked, and the dove-breasted 'Star'
Notes how brutal the habits engendered by war.
Then we've plots, the despair of the peoples about,
And as soon as the plotters are caught they're let out,
Or kept just long enough to excuse a collation,
With the dungeons of Britain to point the oration.
Then for heroes renowned for tongue, pistol, or pen,
Sure the island's entirely full of fine men.
There's Stephens at Paris, and Warren at sea,
And O'Farrel in heaven as high as can be,
For where is the 'martyr as noble as he '?
Then O'Sullivan's self, but a few weeks ago,
A mayor was a tradesman set up for a show,
When brief like the north light O'Sullivan came,
And a halo eternally rests on the name.
But now I remember you've asked my opinion
On Irish complaining and English dominion.
First the Church—'tis a question without any doubt
As good as another to break heads about.
Next the land—faix, to me it is really the same,
If the wine's good I'll drink any toast that you name.
But there's one thing that, frankly, our boys doesn't please,
Tis that so many landlords are still absentees.
The country's extensive, more guns there were never,
While the birds, they've been lately more wilder than ever :
Some shootings e'en now may be had for the giving,
And without 'em this country'd be not fit to live in.
You won't be annoyed if I end rather quickly,
There's a beautiful cover just down by the water,
And beside it old H____ on the walk with his daughter;
You're a sportsman yourself—such a chance !
'In a vimute.
Is the blunderbuss right and the ivaterspout in it ?
Then my duty to Synan, no more,
May he live till his death if he don't die before !