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III.

(Lento e maestoso.) Och! 'tis all in my eye, and a joke, Tempus stulta plebs abhorret To call fasting a sorrowful yoke; Quadragesimale ; Sure, of Dublin-bay herrings a keg, Halec sed

si in mensâ foret,

Res iret non tam male! Is enough for all sensible folk ! Ova dum hæc nyapha torret

Success to the fragrant turf-smoke, In ollâ cum sale. That curls round the pan on the fire ; Est Margarita, While the sweet yellow yolk

Quæ facit ita, From the egg-shells is broke

Puellarum regina!

And an egg,

In that pan,
Who can,

If he have but the heart of a man,
Not feel the soft flame of desire,
When it burns to a clinker the heart of

a friar?

PROUT.

I coincide with all that has been said in praise of eggs; I have written a voluminous essay on the subject; and as to frying them in a pan, it is decidedly the best method. That ingenious man, Crofton Croker, was the first among all the writers on “useful knowledge” who adorn this utilitarian epoch to discover the striking resemblance that exists between those two delightful objects in natural history, a daisy and a fried egg. Eggs broken into a pan seem encircled with a whitish border, having a yellow nucleus in the centre; and the similar appearance of the field-daisy ought to have long since drawn the notice of Wordsworth. Meantime, in the matter of frying eggs, care should be taken not to overdo them, as an old philosopher has said — MERETN TO TAV. But let none imagine that in all I have said I intend to hint, in the remotest manner, any approval of that barbarous and unnatural combination—that horrid amalgam, yclept a pancake, than which nothing can be more detestable.

SCOTT.

Have you any objection, learned host, to our hearing a little instrumental music? Suppose we got a tune on the bagpipe? I understand your man, Terry Callaghan, can squeeze the bags to some purpose.

PROUT.
Terry! come in, and bring your pipes !

Terry, nothing loath, came, though with some difficulty, and rather unsteadily, from the kitchen; and having establisbed himself on a three-legged stool (the usual seat of Pythonic inspiration), gave, after a short prelude, the following harmonious strain, with vocal accompaniment to suit the tuneful drone of the bags : in which arrangement he strictly adhered to the Homeric practice; for we find that the most approved and highly gifted minstrels of the “ Odyssey,” (especially that model among the bards of antiquity, Demodocus), owing to their contempt for wind-instruments, were enabled to play and sing at the same time; but neither the lyre, the plectrum, the poguryš, the chelys, the testudo, or the barbiton, afford such facilities for the concomitance of voice and music as that wondrous engine of harmony, the Celtic bagpipe, called

by the French, as if par excellence "cornu musa.” Terry, having exalted his horn,

coine inuse

Eang thus :

Terry Callaghan's Song; Being a full and true Account of the Storming of Blarney Castle, by the united forces of Cromwell, Ireton, and Fairfax, in 1628.

AIR—"I'm akin to the Callaghans.'
O Blarney Castle, my darlint!

Sure you're nothing at all but a stone
Wrapt in ivy-a nest

for all varmint,
Since the ould Lord Clancarty is gone.
Och! 'tis you that was once strong and aincient,

And ye kep all the Sassenachs down,
While fighting them battles that aint yet
Forgotten by martial renown.

O Blarney Castle, &c.
Bad luck to that robber, ould Crommill!

That plundered our beautiful fort ;
We'll never forgive him, though some will-

Saxons ! such as George Knapp and his sort.
But they tell us the day 'll come, when Dannel

Will purge the whole country, and drive
All the Sassenachs into the channel,
Nor leave a Cromwellian alive.

O Blarney Castle, &c.

Curse the day clumsy Noll's ugly corpus,

Clad in copper, was seen on our plain ;
When he rowled over here like a porpoise,

In two or three hookers from Spain !
And bekase that he was a freemason

He mounted a battering-ram,
And into her mouth, full of treason,
Twenty pound of gunpowder he'd crain.

O Blarney Castle, &c.
So when the brave boys of Clancarty

Looked over their battlement-wall,
They saw wicked Oliver's party

All a feeding on powder and ball;
And that giniral that married his daughter,

Wid a heap of grape-shot in his jaw-
That's bould Ireton, so famous for slaughter-
And he was his brother-in-law.

O Blarney Castle, &c.
They fired off their bullets like thunder,

That whizzed through the air like a snako ;
And they made the ould castle (no wonder !)

With all its foundations to shake.
While the Irish had nothing to shoot off

But their bows and their arras, the sowls !
Waypons fit for the wars of old Plutarch,

And perhaps mighty good for wild fowls,

Och! 'twas Crommill then gave the dark token

For in the black art he was deep ;
And tho' the eyes of the Irish stood open,

They found themselves all fast asleep!
With his jack-boots he stepped on the water,

And he walked clanc right over the lake;
While his sodgers they all followed after,
As dry as a duck or a drake.

O Blarney Castle, &c.
Then the gates he burnt down to a cinder,

And the roof he demolished likewise ;
0! the rafters they flamed out like tinder,

And the buildin' flared up to the skies.
And he gave the estate to the Jefiers,

With the dairy, the cows, and the hay :
And they lived there in clover like heifers,
As their ancestors do to this day.

O Blarney Castle, &c. Such was the song of Terry, in the chorus of which he was aided by the sympathetic baryton of Jack Bellew's

den;

voice, never silent when his country's woes are the theme of eloquence or minstrelsy. An incipient somnolency began, however, to manifest itself in Corbet and Dick Dow

and I confess I myself can recollect little else of the occurrences of the evening. Wherefore with this epilogue we conclude our account of the repast on Watergrasshill, observing that Sir Walter Scott was highly pleased with the sacerdotal banquet, and expressed himself so to Knapp; to whom, on their return in a post-chaise to Cork, he exclaimed,

“ Prorsùs jucundè cænam produximus illam."-HOR.

No. IV.

DEAN SWIFT'S MADNESS.

A TALE OF A CHURN.

From the Prout Papers.

O thou, whatever title please thine ear,

Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver-
Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rab’lais' easy chair,
Or praise the court, or magnify manki
Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind !"

POPE. We are perfectly prepared for the overwhelming burst of felicitation which we shall elicit from a sympathizing public, when we announce the glad tidings of the safe arrival in London of the Watergrasshill “ chest,” fraught with treasures such as no Spanish galleon ever wafted from Manilla or Peru into the waters of the Guadalquiver. From the remote Irish highland where Prout wasted so much Athenian suavity on the desert air, unnoticed and unappreciated by the rude tenants of the hamlet, his trunk of posthumous papers has been brought into our cabinet; and there it stands before us, like unto the Trojan horse, replete with the armed offspring of the great man's brain, rightwell packed with classic stuffing-ay, pregnant with life and glory! Haply has Fate decreed that it should fall into proper hands and fitting custody ; else to what vile uses might not this vile box of learned lumber have been unwittingly converted—we shudder in spirit at the probable destiny that would have awaited it. The Caliph Omar warmed the bath of Alexandria with Ptolemy's library ; and the “ Prout Papers” might ere now be lighting the pipes of “the boys” in Blarney Lane, while the chest itself might afford materials for a three-legged stool—Truncus ficulnus, inutile lignum .!"

In verity it ought to be allowable at times to indulge in that most pleasing opiate, self-applause; and having made so goodly an acquisition, why should not we chuckle inwardly while congratulated from without, ever and anon glancing an eye of satisfaction at the chest:

“ Mihi plaudo ipse domi, simul ac contemplor in arcâ !" Never did that learned ex-Jesuit, Angelo Mai, now librarian of the Vatican, rejoice more over a “palimpsest” MS.of some crazy old monk, in which his quick eye fondly had detected the long-lost decade of Livy-never did friend Pettigrew gloat over a newly uncoffined mummy-(warranted of the era of Sesostris)-never did (that living mummy) Maurice de Talleyrand exult over a fresh bundle of Palmerstonian protocols, with more internal complacency,—than did we, jubilating over this sacerdotal anthology, this miscellany "in boards," at last safely lodged in our possession.

Apropos. We should mention that we had previously the honour of receiving from his Excellency Prince Maurice (aforesaid) the following note, to which it grieved us to return a flat negative.

"Le Prince de Talleyrand prie Mr. OLIVIER YORKE d'agréer ses respectueux hommages. Ayant eu l'avantage de connaître personellement feu l'Abbé de Prout lors de ses études à la Sorbonne en 1778, il serait charmé, sitôt qu'arriveront les papiers de ce respectable ecclésiastique, d'assister à l'ouverture du coffre. Cette faveur, qu'il se flatte d'obtenir de la politesse reconnue de Monsieur YORKE, il sçaura duement apprécier. Ambassade de France, Hanovre Sq.

ce 3 Juin.'

66

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