Here in the dust, its strange adventures o’er, A hammer rests, that ne’er knew rest before. Released from toil, it slumbers by the side Of one who oft its temper sorely tried; No day e’er pass’d, but in some desperate strife He risk’d the faithful hammer’s limbs and life: Now laying siege to some old limestone wall, Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees, Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize; But, if a piece of copper met his eyes, He’d mount a precipice that touch’d the skies, And bring down lumps so precious, and so many, I’m sure they almost would have made--a penny! Think, when such deeds as these were daily done, What fearful risks this hammer must have run. And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine In lays more lofty and more famed than mine: Oh! that in strains which ne’er should be forgot, Its deeds were blazon’d forth by Walter Scott! Then should its name with his be closely link’d, And live till every mineral were extinct. Rise, epic bards! be yours the ample field-- Bid W----’s hammer match Achilles’ shield: As for _my_ muse, the chaos of her brain, I search for specimens of wit in vain; Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer, And seek some theme less arduous than the hammer; Remembering well, “what perils do environ” Woman or “man that meddles with cold iron.” PROLOGUE TO THE _POOR GENTLEMAN_, AS INTENDED TO BE PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE 34TH REGIMENT AT CLONMEL.[5] _Enter Captain_ George Browne, _in the character of Corporal_ Foss. To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here, Stands “The Poor Gentleman,” with many a fear; Since well he knows, whoe’er may judge his cause, That Poverty’s no title to applause. Genius or Wit, pray, who’ll admire or quote, If all their drapery be a threadbare coat? Who, in a world where all is bought and sold, Minds a man’s worth--except his worth in gold? Who’ll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner! Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner! Away with Poverty! let none receive her, She bears contagion as a plague or fever; “Bony, and gaunt, and grim”--like jaundiced eyes, Discolouring all within her sphere that lies. “Poor Gentleman!” and by poor soldiers, too! Oh, matchless impudence! without a sous! In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is, With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses, How shall they dare at such a bar appear? What are their tactics and manœuvres here?