Killarney, May 9th .
—Here am I, living at rack and manger, with my old
schoolfellow, Blennerhasset ; and you and your Magazine may go to the devil, for
any thing I care about either of you. We embark on the lake about 11 o’clock,
after a decent breakfast, and contrive to kill the evening till about five, soon
after which we enter ourselves for the sweepstakes, and, to use the phraseology
of my friend, the Reverend Hamilton Paul, generally contrive to stow away
under our belt a bottle of black-strap, before tumbling in. You may think
this monotonous—but you are quite wrong. One day we fish trout, another
eels, and another salmon, which produces an agreeable variety; and it was
only last Thursday that Rowan Cashel and myself swam across the Devil’s
Punch Bowl on the top of Mangerton. We also attend wakes, fairs, funerals,
and patrons, and go to church as regular as clock-work. In short, I have some
intention of marrying again, and settling for the remainder of my life, at least
for a year or two, somewhere in Kerry. I hear Mullcocky blowing his
horn for us to join a batch of young ladies, on a party of pleasure, to the upper
lake, and we are going to dine on cold provisions on Ronayne’s Island, which is
as beautiful and romantic a spot as ever you clapt eyes on. I enclose for you
the only piece of poetry I have composed since I past through Cork. I jotted it
down with a black-lead pencil, in a silver case, belonging to a young gentle-
man with a good-natured face, on the outside of the coach ; and I am sorry to
say, that on parting from us, he forgot to ask it back again ; so I keep it for
the sake of an agreeable travelling companion. You will observe, from its
stopping short all at once; that the Poem is only a fragment. Mullcocky is in
a big passion, I hear, so good-b’ye Kit, prays ever your hearty chum,
Morgan Odoherty.
P.S. Something seems to have gone wrong with the barge, so I have time for
a P.S. I encountered the Champion’s funeral ; and it was the biggest I ever
witnessed. It was duly celebrated by games too ; for, as the story went, cer-
tain persons, suspected of being young surgeons or their jackalls, were met and
severely beaten by some of the champions of the fist, who jaloused, as your
Scottish peasantry say, that they were on the watch for the hero’s remains.
Another version of the story is, that the designs of the knights of the scalpel
were all along suspected by the knights of the daddle, who appointed a trusty
band to watch, for two days and nights, the holy shrine where their saint was
laid. Having gone, however, to indulge themselves in a funeral libation foran hour or two, at the “ honor,” (a drinking bout at a burial) they found, on
repairing to their post, that the enemy had been before them, and had, with
infinite judgment, effected the resurrection, before the champion was well warm
in his grave. A deputation of very respectable gentlemen waited on the corpse
next day, to ascertain the fact : but it is absolutely impossible to ascertain any
fact in Dublin ; and you meet thousands and tens of thousands every day, and
in every company, who maintain that the champion is now in Edinburgh. If
you have seen him on any of your dissecting tables there, pray let me know.
—But I hear the ladies giggling, so I must be after joining the water-party.



When green Erin laments for her hero removed,1
From the Isle where he flourished, the Isle that he loved,2
Where he entered so often the twenty foot lists,3
And, twinkling like meteors, he flourished his fists,4
And gave to his foes more set downs and toss overs,5
Than ever was done by the greatest philosophers,6
In folio, in twelves, or in quarto,7
Shall the harp of Odoherty silent remain,8
And shall he not waken its music again ?9
Oh ! yes with his soul and his heart too !10


Majestic Odonnelly ! proud as thou art,11
Like a cedar on top of Mount Hermon,12
We lament that death shamelessly made thee depart,13
In the gripes, like a blacksmith or chairman,14
Oh ! hadst thou been felled by Tom Crib in the ring15
Or by Carter been milled to a jelly,16
Oh ! sure that had been a more dignified thing,17
Than to kick for a pain in your belly !18


A curse on the belly that robbed us of thee,19
And the bowels unfit for their office ;20
A curse on the potyeen you swallowed too free,21
For a stomach complaint, all the doctors agree,22
Far worse than a headache or cough is.23
Death, who like a cruel and insolent bully, drubs24
All those he thinks fit to attack,25
Cried Dan, my tight lad, try a touch of my mulligrubs,26
Which soon laid him flat on his back !27


Great spirits of Broughton, Jem Belcher, and Fig,28
Of Corcoran, Pierce, and Dutch Sam ;29
Whether up stairs or down, you kick up a rig,30
And at intervals pause your blue ruin to swig,31
Or with grub, your bread baskets to cram.32
Or, whether for quiet you’re placed all alone33
In some charming retired little heaven of your own,34
Where the turf is elastic, in short just the thing35
That Bill Gibbons would choose when he’s forming a ring,36
That wherever you wander you still may turn too,37
And thrash and be thrashed till your all black and blue ;38
Where your favourite enjoyments for ever are near,39
And you eat, and you drink, and you fight all the year ;40
Ah ! receive then to join in your milling delight,41
The shade of Sir Daniel Donnelly, knight ;42
With whom a turn up is no frolic ;43
His is no white or cold liver,44
For he beat Oliver, 45
Challenged Carter, and died of the colic !46


Bad luck to my soul,47
But I’ll fill the punch bowl,48
To the brim with good stingo ; and so Nelly49
Don’t let the toast pass you,50
But fill up your glass to51
Demolishing Daniel Donnelly.52