#IrishWriters
All-ruling tyrant of the earth, To vilest slaves I owe my birth, How is the greatest monarch blest, When in my gaudy livery drest! No haughty nymph has power to run
By an old––––pursued, A crazy prelate, and a royal prude… By dull divines, who look with env… On ev’ry genius that attempts to r… And pausing o’er a pipe, with doub…
Let me thy Properties explain, A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain; Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smo… Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-… Here Elements have lost their Vse…
We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and feature… One of us in glass is set, One of us you’ll find in jet. T’other you may see in tin,
While, Stella, to your lasting pr… The Muse her annual tribute pays, While I assign myself a task Which you expect, but scorn to ask… If I perform this task with pain,
Here lies the Earl of Suffolk’s f… Men call’d him Dicky Pearce; His folly served to make folks lau… When wit and mirth were scarce. Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone…
Observe the dying father speak: Try, lads, can you this bundle bre… Then bids the youngest of the six Take up a well-bound heap of stick… They thought it was an old man’s m…
By something form’d, I nothing am… Yet everything that you can name; In no place have I ever been, Yet everywhere I may be seen; In all things false, yet always tr…
Careful Observers may fortel the… (By sure Prognosticks) when to dr… While Rain depends, the pensive C… Her Frolicks, and pursues her Tai… Returning Home at Night, you’ll f…
The Thresher Duck, could o’er the… The Proverb says; No Fence again… From threshing Corn, he turns to… For which Her My allows him Grai… Though ’tis confess’t, that those…
Ah! Strephon, how can you despise Her, who without thy pity dies! To Strephon I have still been tru… And of as noble blood as you; Fair issue of the genial bed,
Gently stir and blow the fire, Lay the mutton down to roast, Dress it quickly, I desire, In the dripping put a toast, That I hunger may remove—
This day, whate’er the Fates decr… Shall still be kept with joy by me… This day, then, let us not be told That you are sick, and I grown ol… Nor think on our approaching ills,
The Scottish hinds, too poor to h… In frosty nights their starving co… While not a blade of grass or hay Appears from Michaelmas to May, Must let their cattle range in vai…
Frail glass! thou mortal art as we… Though none can tell which of us f…