A Pastoral Ballad.

BY JOHN BULL.

Dublin, March 12, 1827.--Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.--Freeman's Journal.

I have found out a gift for my Erin,
A gift that will surely content her:--
Sweet pledge of a love so endearing!
Five millions of bullets I've sent her.

She askt me for Freedom and Right,
But ill she her wants understood;--
Ball cartridges, morning and night,
Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives
But we read, in some amiable trials,
How husbands make love to their wives
Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.

One thinks, with his mistress or mate
A good halter is sure to agree--
That love-knot which, early and late,
I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.

While another, whom Hymen has blest
With a wife that is not over placid,
Consigns the dear charmer to rest,
With a dose of the best Prussic acid.

Thus, Erin! my love do I show--
Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed!
And, as poison and hemp are too slow,
Do thy business with bullets instead.

Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken,
Ask Roden, that mildest of saints;
He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken,
Alone can remove thy complaints;--

That, blest as thou art in thy lot,
Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant
But being hanged, tortured and shot,
Much oftener than thou art at present.

Even Wellington's self hath averred
Thou art yet but half sabred and hung,
And I loved him the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from his tongue.

So take the five millions of pills,
Dear partner, I herewith inclose;
'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill,
From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go,
How I wish that, before you set out,
The Devil of the Freischütz could know
The good work you are going about.

For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead.
Into such supernatural wit.
That you'd all of you know, as you sped,
Where a bullet of sense ought to hit.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

Spring And Autumn.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Erin! The Tear And The Smile In Thine Eyes.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Epistle From Tom Crib To Big Ben.[1] Concerning Some Foul Play In A Late Transaction.[2]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Rector And His Curate; Or, One Pound Two.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Intolerance, A Satire.

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Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter I.

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The Fudge Family In Paris Letter XII. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Miss Dorothy ----.

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A Waterloo Ballad.

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Write On, Write On. A Ballad.

Air.--"Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear.
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The good we've sought for many a year
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Sure never since the precious use
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