Do you see me now, my feelings were never so much hurted as when I heard
of the death of the man of the strong hand—[...]—Dan, or Daniel, or
Sir Daniel Donnelly. At Commons that day, I ate nothing to speak of, do
you see me now, nothing to speak of, only a matter of four pounds avoirdupois
of beef ; no delicacy, except the half, or perhaps 3-5ths of a custard pudding,
and drank nothing but three pints of October. [...] said I, [...]
though I know not whether he was [...] or callous—[...] Ay, ay,
said Dr Kyle, for he is a man facetious in himself. Cheer up, doctor, said he,
and take this cut of mutton. [...]—Damn Patroclus, said I, Lord
pardon me, do you see me now, for swearing, what was he to Donnelly, [...]
At chapel next Sunday, I slept through three quarters of an hour, though
Dr Wall was preaching—for grief produceth somnolency. There was I
inspired with a poetical effusion—nam me Phæbus amat—in the Hebrew
tongue—the tongue despised by the ambubaiarum collegia Pharmacopolæ
mendici mimæ balatrones—but dear to me, seeing that it bringeth me in
a neat salary. Having heard then, O most learned Mr North, that you had
summoned your bold bards to send their verses to Auld Reekie’s town, I send
you this. I hate long prefaces, and have ere now fined a refractory scholar for
saying grace too tediously, and thereby keeping the meat cooling—a thing,
most erudite Star of Edinburgh, hateful to my soul. Therefore, do you see
me now, I shall not keep your expectation cooling, but let you fall to. Print
my Hebrew properly. Mind the points. Put not Patach for a Kametz, a
Chateph Sægol for a Tzere, a Kibbutz for a Sheva. Masoretically print it, di-
acritically compose it. So farewell. Vive valeque.
Dublin, April 1, 1820.
J. Barrett.
[By some accident, which we cannot explain, Dr Barrett’s dirge has come to
us much mutilated. We hasten, however, to print the fragments. It is a
remarkable circumstance, that Dr Barrett’s lament bears a resemblance to
a lament of Mr Hyman Hurwitz’s published in 1817. It must be accidental.


Mourn Erin, sons of Erin, mourn,1
Give utterance to the inward throe,2
As wails of her first love forlorn,3
The virgin clad in robes of Wo.4


Mourn for our Champion snatched away5
From the fair Curragh’s verdant ring ;6
Mourn for his first now wrapt in clay,7
No more the ponderous thump to fling.8


Mourn for the daisy† flower that went,9
Ere half disclosed its boxing powers ;10
Lost, Mourn the green bud so rudely rent11
From Ireland’s pugilistic bowers.12

* Author of Buonaparte, a poem ; we fear not extant. Mr H. has made Mr Cole-
ridge’s translation of Hurqitz’s dirge the basis of his.
† The daisy was the flower of Sir Daniel, just as the violet was that of Buonaparte.  Af-
ter his signal defeat of Oliver, he went home singing, “Down among the Daisies.”


Mourn for the universal wo,13
With solemn dirge and faultering tongue,14
For Ireland’s champion is laid low,15
So stout, so hearty, and so strong.16
Of Mr Hincks’ translation we shall
only give in addition the 9th, 11th,
and 12th verses.


Mourn for old Ireland’s hopes decayed,17
Her bruisers weep in mournful strain,18
Their fair example prostrate laid,19
By seven and forty tumblers slain.20



Long as the Commons-hall is trod21
Will I the yearly dirge renew22
Mourn for the nursling of the sod,*23
Our darling hurried from our view.24


The proud shall pass forgot ; the chill,25
Damp, trickling vault their only mourner,26
Not so our daisy ; no, that still27
Clings to the breast which first had worn her.28


* The sod, [...] , is Ireland.