Molony's Lament

  O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons,
    And read what the peepers report?
  They're goan to recal the Liftinant,
    And shut up the Castle and Coort!

  Our desolate counthry of Oireland,
    They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy,
  And now having murdthered our counthry,
    They're goin to kill the Viceroy, Dear boy;
    'Twas he was our proide and our joy!

  And will we no longer behould him,
    Surrounding his carriage in throngs,
  As he weaves his cocked-hat from the windies,
    And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs?
  I liked for to see the young haroes,
    All shoining with sthripes and with stars,
  A horsing about in the Phaynix,
    And winking the girls in the cyars,
             Like Mars,
    A smokin' their poipes and cigyars.

  Dear Mitchell exoiled to Bermudies,
    Your beautiful oilids you'll ope,
  And there'll be an abondance of croyin'
   From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope,
  When they read of this news in the peepers,
    Acrass the Atlantical wave,
  That the last of the Oirish Liftinints
    Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave.  God save
    The Queen—she should betther behave.

  And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet,
    And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts,
  Whin the Coort of imparial splindor
  From Doblin's sad city departs?
  And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers,
    When the deuce of a Coort there remains?
  And where'll be the bucks and the ladies,
    To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains?
             In sthrains,
    It's thus that ould Erin complains!

  There's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy
     'Twas she in the Coort didn't fail,
  And she wanted a plinty of popplin,
    For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail;
  She bought it of Misthress O'Grady,
    Eight shillings a yard tabinet,
  But now that the Coort is concluded,
    The divvle a yard will she get; I bet,
    Bedad, that she wears the old set.

  There's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary,
    They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs';
  Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson,
    They mounted the neatest of wigs.
  When Spring, with its buds and its dasies,
    Comes out in her beauty and bloom,
  Thim tu'll never think of new jasies,
    Becase there is no dthrawing-room,
             For whom
    They'd choose the expense to ashume.

  There's Alderman Toad and his lady,
    'Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort,
  And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters,
    To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort.
  But now that the quality's goin,
    I warnt that the aiting will stop,
  And you'll get at the Alderman's teeble
    The devil a bite or a dthrop,
             Or chop;
    And the butcher may shut up his shop.

  Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin,
    And his Lordship, the dear honest man,
  And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy,
    And Corry, the bould Connellan,
  And little Lord Hyde and the childthren,
    And the Chewter and Governess tu;
  And the servants are packing their boxes,—
    Oh, murther, but what shall I due
             Without you?
    O Meery, with ois of the blue!

This poem is in the public domain.