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."