Our’s is an esculent lusty and lasting; No turnip nor other weak babe of the ground; Waxy or mealy, it hinders from fasting Half Erin’s inhabitants, all the year round. Wants the soil, where ’tis flung, Hog’s, cow’s, or horse’s dung, Still does the Crest of O’Shaughnashane grow; Shout for it, Ulster men, Till the bogs quake again! Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho! Drink, Paddies, drink to the Lady so shining! While flouret shall open, and bog-trotter dig, So long may the sweet Rose of Beauty be twining Around the potato of proud Blarneygig! While the plant vegetates, While whisky recreates, Wash down the root from the horns that o’erflow; Shake your shillalahs, boys! Screeching drunk, scream your joys! Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho! The Song in Canto III, commencing thus:―― The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder’s tread, Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary! * * * * * is thus parodied:―― SONG OF THE BRIDEGROOM. Don’t, now, be after being coy; Sit still upon my lap, dear joy! And let us at our breakfast, toy, For thou art Wife to me, Judy! And I am bound, by wedlock’s chain, Thy humble sarvant to remain, Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane, The Husband unto thee, Judy! * * * * * The skins of Wolves,――by me they bled,―― Are covers to our Marriage-Bed; Should one, in hunting, bite me dead, A widow thou wilt be, Judy! Howl at my wake! ’twill be but kind; And if I leave, as I’ve design’d, Some little Tooleywhaggs behind, They’ll sarve to comfort thee, Judy! Several other parts of this parody might be quoted, but unfortunately Mr. Colman’s muse was not quite so chaste as that of Walter Scott. ――――