_Lines written in a Lady’s Album._ Yes, I shall live! the voice of fame Will not be lost to me and mine, Since, lady, I may write my name Upon this spotless leaf of thine. The eager hands of future ages Will catch the volume left by thee; And those who dwell within its pages Will gain an immortality. _Lines written under the foregoing._ And is it thus you hope for fame? Fame like this! alas! what is it? To give some idle thought a name, That some good-natured friend may quiz it. This constant craving―itch of soul― For praise and fame makes those who catch it Like parrots―who still stretch a pole, That passers-by may kindly scratch it. _From a Tombstone in Ballyporeen Church-yard._ Here, at length I repose― And my spirit at aise is― With the tips of my toes, And the point of my nose, Turned up to the roots of the daisies. * * * * * Where spades grow bright, and idle swords grow dull; Where gaols are empty, and where barns are full; Where church-paths are with frequent feet outworn, Law court-yards weedy, silent, and forlorn; Where doctors foot it, and where farmers ride; Where age abounds, and youth is multiplied; Where these signs are, they clearly indicate A happy people, a well-governed state. _A Cure for Love._ Hunger and time will quench the flame That burns on Cupid’s altar; But if both fail its strength to tame, The certain cure’s the halter. _The Cynic’s Home._ No single land my country call, No single house my home; But home and country, name them all That shield me when I come. _On a Flatterer._ You attack me when absent with slanderous tongue, But thus fail to injure my name; Your flattery, when present, I feel is the wrong, For your praise is my grief and my shame. John’s wife complains, that John discourses And thinks of nothing else but horses. Whilst John, a caustic wag, Says, it is wonderful to see How thoroughly their tastes agree, For, that his wife, as well as he, Most dearly loves a (k)nag. _On the Gout._ Venus and Bacchus both combine To weaken man with love and wine; But worse than them we find, no doubt, Their still more weakening son, the gout. _To a Man with a long Nose._ Should you e’er stand with open mouth, And turn your face exactly south, The shadow your huge nose must throw On your wide teeth, the hour will show. * * * * * Said Sam, Although my body weigh Full sixteen stone, I swear, Whatever people think or say, My heart is light as air. It is a likely thing enough, That such result should follow: The body he takes care to stuff, Whereas the heart―is hollow. _On a Morose Man._ So stern in death was Timon’s ghost, Pluto ran off for fear he’d fight him; And even Cerberus left his post, In mortal terror lest he’d bite him. _On the Statue of an Ox._