Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Irish Traveller
The Irish Traveller.
An Irishman travelling (though not for delight)
Arrived in a city one cold winter's night,
Found the landlord and servants in bed at the inn,
While standing without he was drenched to the skin.
He groped for the knocker, no knocker was found,
When turning his head accidentally round,
He saw, as he thought, by the lamp's feeble ray,
The object he searched for right over the way.
The knocker he grasped, and so loud was the roar,
It seemed like a sledge breaking open the door;
The street, far and wide, was disturbed by the clang,
And resounded aloud with the Irishman's bang.
The wife screamed aloud, and the husband appears
At the window, his shoulders shrugged up to his ears;
"So ho! honest friend—pray what is the matter!
That at this time of night you should make such a clatter
"Go to bed, go to bed," says Pat, "my dear honey,
I am not a robber to ask for your money,
I borrowed your knocker, before it is day,
To waken the landlord right over the way."
Arrived in a city one cold winter's night,
Found the landlord and servants in bed at the inn,
While standing without he was drenched to the skin.
He groped for the knocker, no knocker was found,
When turning his head accidentally round,
He saw, as he thought, by the lamp's feeble ray,
The object he searched for right over the way.
The knocker he grasped, and so loud was the roar,
It seemed like a sledge breaking open the door;
The street, far and wide, was disturbed by the clang,
And resounded aloud with the Irishman's bang.
The wife screamed aloud, and the husband appears
At the window, his shoulders shrugged up to his ears;
"So ho! honest friend—pray what is the matter!
That at this time of night you should make such a clatter
"Go to bed, go to bed," says Pat, "my dear honey,
I am not a robber to ask for your money,
I borrowed your knocker, before it is day,
To waken the landlord right over the way."