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They did not hoard it up or save it,
But generous Pat to Peter gave it;
And Peter spent it, part in Rome’s
High jinks, snug dinners, shows, at homes,
Part in promoting village wakes
And trips to shrines, where pious rakes
Combined hard drinking with devotions,
And brought home complicated notions
Of heaven and hell together muddled,
And oft a pate in cere-cloths huddled,
As though by toothache bulged; for daggers
Ne’er lag where Superstition swaggers.
But, surrogate with kindly play
The village doctor’s scanty pay.
You gaze aghast the well-known faces
A field of turnips now replaces,
Wagging at doors, a spectral crop,
Or, circling round the village shop
With nips of “grappa” to compose
Its doddering limbs and purpling nose.
But of Pat’s hard-won earnings far the
Most bulky part went off in rather
A curious way—in squibs and crackers,
Rockets and Roman candles, whackers!
And Catherine wheels or showery spangles,
Mortars, cascades of fiery tangles,
Phosphoric snakes of wavering fire,
Balloons that rose and, bursting higher,
Peopled the nights with dazzling flights
Of radiant stars and Iris lights;
Set pieces,—frameworks, overloaded
With every sort of squib, exploded
