Part 26 (1/2)

There's Statues bright Of marble white, Of silver, and of copper; And some in zinc, And some, I think, That isn't over proper.

There's staym Ingynes, That stands in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs, There's dibblers and there's harrows.

And ploughs like toys For little boys, And ilegant wheelbarrows.

For thim genteels Who ride on wheels, There's plenty to indulge 'em: There's Droskys snug From Paytersbug, And vayhycles from Bulgium.

There's Cabs on Stands And Shandthry danns; There's Waggons from New York here; There's Lapland Sleighs Have cross'd the seas, And Jaunting Cyars from Cork here.

Amazed I pa.s.s From gla.s.s to gla.s.s, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows Before me nose In this sublime Musayum!

Look, here's a fan From far j.a.pan, A sabre from Damasco: There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes, Marocky boots, And Naples Macaronies; Bohaymia Has sent Bohay; Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints That's quite imminse, There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And Gingerbread and Jewels.

There's taypots there, And cannons rare; There's coffins fill'd with roses; There's canvas tints, Teeth insthrumints, And shuits of clothes by MOSES.

There's las.h.i.+ns more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber!

Ah, JUDY thru!

With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it!

And could I screw But tu pound tu, 'Tis I would thrait you to it!

So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition, That takes his ayse As he surveys This Cristial Exhibition.

1851.

MOLONY'S LAMENT.

O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons, And read what the peepers report?

They're goan to recal the Liftinant, And shut up the Castle and Coort!

Our desolate counthry of Oireland, They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy, And now having murdthered our counthry, They're goin to kill the Viceroy, Dear boy; 'Twas he was our proide and our joy!

And will we no longer behould him, Surrounding his carriage in throngs, As he weaves his c.o.c.ked-hat from the windies, And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs?

I liked for to see the young haroes, All shoining with sthripes and with stars, A horsing about in the Phaynix, And winking the girls in the cyars, Like Mars, A smokin' their poipes and cigyars.

Dear Mitch.e.l.l exoiled to Bermudies, Your beautiful oilids you'll ope, And there'll be an abondance of croyin'

From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope, When they read of this news in the peepers, Acra.s.s the Atlantical wave, That the last of the Oirish Liftinints Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. G.o.d save The Queen--she should betther behave.

And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet, And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts, Whin the Coort of imparial splindor From Doblin's sad city departs?

And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers, When the deuce of a Coort there remains?

And where'll be the bucks and the ladies, To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains?

In sthrains, It's thus that ould Erin complains!