AN IRISH FEAST.
181
While the water and sweat
Splish-splash in their pumps.
Bless you late and early,
Laughlin O'Enagin[1]!
By my hand[2], you dance rarely,
Margery Grinagin[3].
Bring straw for our bed,
Shake it down to the feet,
Then over us spread
The winnowing sheet.
To show I don't flinch,
Fill the bowl up again;
Then give us a pinch
Of your sneezing, a Yean[4].
Good Lord! what a sight,
After all their good cheer,
For people to fight
In the midst of their beer!
They rise from their feast,
And hot are their brains,
A cubit at least
The length of their skeans[5].
What stabs and what cuts,
What clattering of sticks;
What strokes on the guts,
What bastings and kicks!
With cudgels of oak,
Well hardened in flame,
N 3
A hun-
