“I found Carnegie in his nook, upon the old settee, And dark and dismal was his look, as black as black might be, Then suddenly the blood did fly, and leave his face so pale, That scarce I knew, in altered hue, the bard of Largo’s vale; But Meg was winding up the Jack, so off flew all my pains, For, large as cocks, two fat earocks I knew were hung in chains. “Nevertheless, he did express his joy to see me there— Meg laid the cloth, and, nothing loth, I soon pull’d in my chair; The mutton broth and bouilli both came up in season due. The grace is said, when Provan’s head at the door appears in view; The bard at work, like any Turk, first nods an invitation, For who so free as all the three from priggish botheration? “Ere long the Towdies deck the board with a cod’s head and shoulders, And the oyster sauce it surely was great joy to all beholders. To George our king a jolly can of royal port is poured— Our gracious king who knighted Dan with his own shining sword; The next we sip with trembling lip—’tis of the claret clear— To the hero dead that cup we shed, and mix it with a tear. “’Tis now your servant’s turn to mix the nectar of the bowl; Still on the ring our thoughts we fix, while round the goblets roll, Great Jackson, Belcher, Scroggins, Gas, we celebrate in turns, Each Christian, Jew, and Pagan, with the fancy’s flame that burns; Carnegie’s finger on the board a mimic circle draws, And, Egan-like, h’ expounds the rounds and pugilistic laws. “’Tis thus that worth heroic is suitably lamented— Great Daniel’s shade, I know it, dry grief had much resented. What signify your tear and sigh? A bumper is the thing Will gladden most the generous ghost of a champion of the king. The tear and sigh, from voice and eye, must quickly pass away, But the bumper good may be renewed until our dying day.” “A Dirge over Sir Daniel Donnelly. “TUNE—‘_Molly Astore_.’ “As down Exchequer Street[27] I strayed, a little time ago, I chanced to meet an honest blade, his face brimful of woe; I asked him why he seem’d so sad, or why he sigh’d so sore? ‘O Gramachree, och, Tom,’ says he, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’ “With that he took me straight away, and pensively we went To where poor Daniel’s body lay, in wooden waistcoat pent; And many a yard before we reached the threshold of his door, We heard the keeners, as they screeched, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’ “We entered soft, for feelings sad were stirring in our breast, To take our farewell of the lad who now was gone to rest; We took a drop of Dan’s potheen,[28] and joined the piteous roar; Oh, where shall be his fellow seen, since Daniel is no more? “His was the fist, whose weighty dint did Oliver defeat, His was the fist that gave the hint it need not oft repeat. His was the fist that overthrew his rivals o’er and o’er; But now we cry, in phillalu, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’