Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/554
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536
LINES ON TIPPERARY.
Implored the aid of "Paddy Carey,"
Yet still no rhyme for Tipperary;
He next besought his mother Mary,
To tell him rhyme for Tipperary;
But she, good woman, was no fairy,
Nor witch—though born in Tipperary;
Knew everything about her dairy,
But not the rhyme for Tipperary;
The stubborn Muse he could not vary,
For still the lines would run contrary,
Whene'er he thought on Tipperary;
And though of time he was not chary,
'Twas thrown away on Tipperary;
Till of his wild-goose chase most weary,
He vowed to leave out Tipperary;
But, no—the theme he might not vary,
His longing was not temporary,
To find meet rhyme for Tipperary;
He sought among the gay and airy,
He pestered all the military,
Committed many a strange vagary,
Bewitched, it seemed, by Tipperary.
He wrote post-haste to Darby Leary,
Besought with tears his Auntie Sairie,
But sought ho far, or sought he near, he
Ne'er found a rhyme for Tipperary.
He travelled sad through Cork and Kerry,
He drove "like mad" through sweet Dunbary,
Kicked up a precious tantar-ara,
But found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Lived fourteen weeks at Straw-ar-ara,
Was well-nigh lost in Glenègary,
Then started "slick" for Demerara,
In search of rhyme for Tipperary,
Through "Yankee-land," sick, solitary,
He roamed by forest, lake, and prairie—
He went per terrem et per mare—
But found no rhyme for Tipperary.
Through orient climes on dromedary,
On camel's back through great Sahara—
His travels were extraordinary—
In search of rhyme for Tipperary.
Fierce as a gorgon or chimæra,
Fierce as Alecto or Megæra,
Fiercer than e'er a love-sick bear he
Raged through "the londe" of Tipperary;
His cheeks grew thin, and wondrous hairy,
His visage long, his aspect "eerie,"
Yet still no rhyme for Tipperary;
He next besought his mother Mary,
To tell him rhyme for Tipperary;
But she, good woman, was no fairy,
Nor witch—though born in Tipperary;
Knew everything about her dairy,
But not the rhyme for Tipperary;
The stubborn Muse he could not vary,
For still the lines would run contrary,
Whene'er he thought on Tipperary;
And though of time he was not chary,
'Twas thrown away on Tipperary;
Till of his wild-goose chase most weary,
He vowed to leave out Tipperary;
But, no—the theme he might not vary,
His longing was not temporary,
To find meet rhyme for Tipperary;
He sought among the gay and airy,
He pestered all the military,
Committed many a strange vagary,
Bewitched, it seemed, by Tipperary.
He wrote post-haste to Darby Leary,
Besought with tears his Auntie Sairie,
But sought ho far, or sought he near, he
Ne'er found a rhyme for Tipperary.
He travelled sad through Cork and Kerry,
He drove "like mad" through sweet Dunbary,
Kicked up a precious tantar-ara,
But found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Lived fourteen weeks at Straw-ar-ara,
Was well-nigh lost in Glenègary,
Then started "slick" for Demerara,
In search of rhyme for Tipperary,
Through "Yankee-land," sick, solitary,
He roamed by forest, lake, and prairie—
He went per terrem et per mare—
But found no rhyme for Tipperary.
Through orient climes on dromedary,
On camel's back through great Sahara—
His travels were extraordinary—
In search of rhyme for Tipperary.
Fierce as a gorgon or chimæra,
Fierce as Alecto or Megæra,
Fiercer than e'er a love-sick bear he
Raged through "the londe" of Tipperary;
His cheeks grew thin, and wondrous hairy,
His visage long, his aspect "eerie,"