Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Lines on Tipperary
Lines on Tipperary.
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'm scant in rhyme.
Fain would I name thee, but I'm scant in rhyme.
I subjoin a tolerably complete copy of this "rime doggrell:"
A Bard there was in sad quandary,
To find a rhyme for Tipperary.
Long laboured he through January,
Yet found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Toiled every day in February,
But toiled in vain for Tipperary;
Searched Hebrew text and commentary,
But searched in vain for Tipperary;
Bored all his friends at Inverary,
To find a rhyme for Tipperary;
Implored the aid of "Paddy Carey,"
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 vowed 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 pestered all the military,
Committed many a strange vagary,
Bewitched, it seemed, by Tipperary.
He wrote post-haste to Darby Leary,
Besought with tears his Auntie Sairie,
But sought ho far, or sought he near, he
Ne'er found a rhyme for Tipperary.
He travelled sad through Cork and Kerry,
He drove "like mad" through sweet Dunbary,
Kicked up a precious tantar-ara,
But found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Lived fourteen weeks at Straw-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 roamed by forest, lake, and prairie—
He went per terrem 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 love-sick bear he
Raged through "the londe" of Tipperary;
His cheeks grew thin, and wondrous hairy,
His visage long, his aspect "eerie,"
His tout ensemble, faith! 'twould scare ye,
Amidst the wilds of Tipperary.
Becoming hyppcon-dri-ary,
He sent for his apothecary,
Who ordered "halm" 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 sack, or ripe canary,
No rhyme had lacked 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,"
Bhymes had not lacked for Tipperary.
He paced about his aviary,
Blew up sky-high his secretary,
And then in truth and anger sware he,
There was no rhyme for Tipperary.
To find a rhyme for Tipperary.
Long laboured he through January,
Yet found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Toiled every day in February,
But toiled in vain for Tipperary;
Searched Hebrew text and commentary,
But searched in vain for Tipperary;
Bored all his friends at Inverary,
To find a rhyme for Tipperary;
Implored the aid of "Paddy Carey,"
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 vowed 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 pestered all the military,
Committed many a strange vagary,
Bewitched, it seemed, by Tipperary.
He wrote post-haste to Darby Leary,
Besought with tears his Auntie Sairie,
But sought ho far, or sought he near, he
Ne'er found a rhyme for Tipperary.
He travelled sad through Cork and Kerry,
He drove "like mad" through sweet Dunbary,
Kicked up a precious tantar-ara,
But found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Lived fourteen weeks at Straw-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 roamed by forest, lake, and prairie—
He went per terrem 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 love-sick bear he
Raged through "the londe" of Tipperary;
His cheeks grew thin, and wondrous hairy,
His visage long, his aspect "eerie,"
His tout ensemble, faith! 'twould scare ye,
Amidst the wilds of Tipperary.
Becoming hyppcon-dri-ary,
He sent for his apothecary,
Who ordered "halm" 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 sack, or ripe canary,
No rhyme had lacked 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,"
Bhymes had not lacked for Tipperary.
He paced about his aviary,
Blew up sky-high his secretary,
And then in truth and anger sware he,
There was no rhyme for Tipperary.