LINES ON TIPPERARY.
(Vol. vi., p. 578.)
These lines were said to have been addressed to a Dr. Fitzgerald, on reading the following couplet in his apostrophe to his native village:—
"And thou! dear Village, loveliest of the clime,
Fain would I name thee, but I scant in rhyme."
I subjoin a tolerably complete copy of this "rime doggrele:"
"A Bard there was in sad quandary,
To find a rhyme for Tipperary.
Long labour'd he through January,
Yet found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Toil'd every day in February,
But toil'd in vain for Tipperary;
Search'd Hebrew text and commentary,
But search'd in vain for Tipperary;
Bored all his friends at Inverary,
To find a rhyme for Tipperary;
Implored the aid of 'Paddy Cary,'
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 vow'd 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 pester'd all the military,
Committed many a strange vagary,
Bewitch'd, it seem'd, by Tipperary.
He wrote post-haste to Darby Leary,
Besought with tears his Auntie Sairie:—
But sought he far, or sought he near, he
Ne'er found a rhyme for Tipperary.
He travell'd sad through Cork and Kerry,
He drove 'like mad' through sweet Dunleary,
Kick'd up a precious tantar-ara,
But found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Lived fourteen weeks at Stran-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 roam'd by forest, lake, and prairie,
He went per terram 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 lovesick bear, he
Raged through 'the londe' of Tipperary.
His cheeks grew thin and wond'rous hairy,
His visage long, his aspect 'eerie,'
His tout ensemble, faith, would scare ye,
Amidst the wilds of Tipperary.
Becoming hypochon-dri-ary,
He sent for his apothecary,
Who ordered 'balm' and 'saponary,'
Herbs rare to find in Tipperary.
In his potations ever wary,
His choicest drink was 'home gooseberry,'
On 'swipes,' skim-milk, and smallest beer, he
Scanted rhyme for his Tipperary.
Had he imbibed good old Madeira,
Drank 'pottle-deep' of golden sherry,
Of Falstaff's sack, or ripe canary,
No rhyme had lack'd for Tipperary.
Or had his tastes been literary,
He might have found extemporary,
Without the aid of dictionary,
Some fitting rhyme for Tipperary.
Or had he been an antiquary,
Burnt 'midnight oil' in his library,
Or been of temper less 'camsteary,'
Rhymes had not lack'd for Tipperary.
He paced about his aviary,
Blew up, sky-high, his secretary,
And then in wrath and anger sware he,
There was no rhyme for Tipperary."
May we not say with Touchstone, "I'll rhyme you so, eight years together; dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is the right butter-woman's rank to market."
J. M. B.