#Irish
The joy of man, the pride of brute… Domestic subject for disputes, Of plenty thou the emblem fair, Adorn’d by nymphs with all their c… I saw thee raised to high renown,
A lion sunk by time’s decay, Too feeble grown to hunt his prey, Observed his fatal hour draw nigh: He drooped and laid him down to di… There came by chance a savage boar…
Death went upon a solemn day At Pluto’s hall his court to pay; The phantom having humbly kiss’d His grisly monarch’s sooty fist, Presented him the weekly bills
Frail glass! thou mortal art as we… Though none can tell which of us f…
Ye Commons and Peers, Pray lend me your ears, I’ll sing you a song, (if I can,) How Lewis le Grand Was put to a stand,
Ah! Strephon, how can you despise Her, who without thy pity dies! To Strephon I have still been tru… And of as noble blood as you; Fair issue of the genial bed,
Never sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak; The delight of old and young, Though I speak without a tongue. Nought but one thing can confound…
Begotten, and born, and dying with… The terror of women, and pleasure… Like the fiction of poets concerni… I’m chiefly unruly when strongest… For silver and gold I don’t troub…
Don Carlos, in a merry spight, Did Stella to his house invite: He entertain’d her half a year With generous wines and costly che… Don Carlos made her chief directo…
In youth exalted high in air, Or bathing in the waters fair, Nature to form me took delight, And clad my body all in white. My person tall, and slender waist,
I with borrow’d silver shine What you see is none of mine. First I show you but a quarter, Like the bow that guards the Tart… Then the half, and then the whole,
Ever eating, never cloying, All-devouring, all-destroying, Never finding full repast, Till I eat the world at last.
FROM India’s burning clime I’m… With cooling gales like zephyrs fr… Not Iris, when she paints the sky… Can show more different hues than… Nor can she change her form so fas…
I’m wealthy and poor, I’m empty and full, I’m humble and proud, I’m witty and dull. I’m foul and yet fair:
As when a beauteous nymph decays, We say she’s past her dancing days… So poets lose their feet by time, And can no longer dance in rhyme. Your annual bard had rather chose