“ That rural train, which once were us‘d,
In festive dance to turn,
So pleas‘d, when Anna they amus‘d,
Now weeping deck her urn.
The soul escaping from its chain,
She clasp‘d me to her breast,
“To part with thee is all my pain! ”

“ I'll go to Tom Murphy, who lives in the cot,
⁠And borrow his kitchen hot pocker.
’Twas said, and 'twas done-the barrel was bor'd
⁠ (No Bacchanals ever felt prouder,)
When Paddy found out a small error on board,
⁠The whisky, alas! was gunpowder.
With sudden explosion, he flew o'er the ocean,
⁠And high in air, sported a leg;
Yet instinct prevails when philosophy fails,
⁠So he kept a tight hold of the keg. ”

“ What a squalling I made sure at Ballyporeen.
When I grew up a boy, with a nice shining face,
With a bag at my back, and a snail-crawling pace,
Went to school at old Thwackum's at Ballyporeen.
His wig was so fusty, his birch was my dread,
He learning beat out ’stead of into my head.
Master Macshane, says he, you're a great dirty dolt,
You've got no more brains than a Monaghan colt;
You're not fit for our college at Ballyporeen.
When eighteen years of age, was teas'd and perplext
To know what I should be, so a lover turned next,
And courted sweet Sheelah of Ballyporeen. ”