_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._