In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too.
Certain "talented" echoes[2] there dwell,
Who on being askt, "How do you do?"
Politely reply, Pretty well,"
But why should I talk any more
Of such old-fashioned echoes as these,
When Britain has new ones in store,
That transcend them by many degrees?
For of all repercussions of sound
Concerning which bards make a pother,
There's none like that happy rebound
When one blockhead echoes an other;—
When Kenyon commences the bray,
And the Borough-Duke follows his track;
And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay
Rathdowne brays, with interest, back!—
And while, of most echoes the sound
On our ear by reflection doth fall,
These Brunswickers[3] pass the bray round,
Without any reflection at all.
Oh Scott, were I gifted like you,
Who can name all the echoes there are
From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue,
From Benledi to wild Uamvar;
I might track thro' each hard Irish name
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came
To the chief Neddy, Kenyon, again;
Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne,
How from Dawson it died off genteelly—
How hollow it hung from the crown
Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely;
How on hearing my Lord of Glandine,
Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way,
Outdone in their own special line
By the forty-ass power of his bray!
But, no—for so humble a bard
'Tis a subject too trying to touch on;
Such noblemen's names are too hard,
And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.