That every lad may have his whim,
Till we up sails with M’riarty Jim
And sail from Beg-Innish.
EPITAPH
After reading Ronsard’s lines from Rabelais
If fruits are fed on any beast
Let vine-roots suck this parish priest,
For while he lived, no summer sun
Went up but he’d a bottle done,
And in the starlight beer and stout