Whenever you find your wild passions grown tame;
Get a wig made of hair, from the spot ye all prize,
And in spite of your prudence your p—o will rise.
AN
IRISH DYING DITTY.
I am in my nature as brisk as a fly,
Resolving to live the day after I die;
And when I am dead, this live body to save,
Plant a peck of potatoes plump over my grave;
Then, hedge me well round with some big pebble stones,