Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
Whisky: An Irish Bacchanalian Song.
But more of Whisky I'll not sing , Nor tune my pipes so briskly , O ! Since ev ' ry note now on the wing Has kept me from dear Whisky , O Then let me once for all declare To all those who may wish to know , The zest of joy , the bane of care , Is this same Irish Whisky , O !
Contemplating The Period Of All Human Glory, Among The Tombs In Westminster-Abbey.
CONTEMPLATING THE PERIOD OF ALL HUMAN GLORY , AMONG THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY .
BY MRS . STICKLAND . HERE in one horrid ruin lies The great , the fair , the young , the wise ; Th' ambitious king whose boundless mind Scarce to the world could be confin'd , Now content with narrower room ,
Lies crowded in this marble tomb . Death triumphs o ' er the boasted state , The vain distinctions of the great ; Here in one common heap they lie , T And , eloquent in silence , cry , > Ambition is but vanity , . J And see , this sciilptur'd tomb contains Of beauty the abhorr'd remains ;
That face which , none unmov'd could view , Has lost th' enchanting rosy hue ; Those once resistless sparkling eyes No more can heedless hearts surprise ; That form which ev ' ry charm could boast , In loathsome rottenness is lost .
See there the youth whose cheerful bloom Promis'd a train of years to come ; Whose soft . address and graceful air Had scarce obtain'd the yielding fair , When Fate'derides th' expected joys , And all his ; flatt'ring hope destroys . There sleep the bards whose lofty lays Have crown'd their names with fasting praise
; Who , tho' eternity they give , While heroes in their numbers live , Yet these resign their tuneful breath , And wit must yield to mightier death . iEven I , the lowest of the throng , Unskill'd in verse or artful song , Shall shortly shroud my humble head , . And mix whh them ampng the dea . d ,
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
Whisky: An Irish Bacchanalian Song.
But more of Whisky I'll not sing , Nor tune my pipes so briskly , O ! Since ev ' ry note now on the wing Has kept me from dear Whisky , O Then let me once for all declare To all those who may wish to know , The zest of joy , the bane of care , Is this same Irish Whisky , O !
Contemplating The Period Of All Human Glory, Among The Tombs In Westminster-Abbey.
CONTEMPLATING THE PERIOD OF ALL HUMAN GLORY , AMONG THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY .
BY MRS . STICKLAND . HERE in one horrid ruin lies The great , the fair , the young , the wise ; Th' ambitious king whose boundless mind Scarce to the world could be confin'd , Now content with narrower room ,
Lies crowded in this marble tomb . Death triumphs o ' er the boasted state , The vain distinctions of the great ; Here in one common heap they lie , T And , eloquent in silence , cry , > Ambition is but vanity , . J And see , this sciilptur'd tomb contains Of beauty the abhorr'd remains ;
That face which , none unmov'd could view , Has lost th' enchanting rosy hue ; Those once resistless sparkling eyes No more can heedless hearts surprise ; That form which ev ' ry charm could boast , In loathsome rottenness is lost .
See there the youth whose cheerful bloom Promis'd a train of years to come ; Whose soft . address and graceful air Had scarce obtain'd the yielding fair , When Fate'derides th' expected joys , And all his ; flatt'ring hope destroys . There sleep the bards whose lofty lays Have crown'd their names with fasting praise
; Who , tho' eternity they give , While heroes in their numbers live , Yet these resign their tuneful breath , And wit must yield to mightier death . iEven I , the lowest of the throng , Unskill'd in verse or artful song , Shall shortly shroud my humble head , . And mix whh them ampng the dea . d ,