487

Published Jan y 12. 1808. by LAURIE & WHITTLE, 53, Fleet Street, London.

THE IRISH SMUGGLERS.

(Extracted from No. XII. of the MONTHLY MIRROR—New Series.)

FROM Brighton two Paddies walk'd under the cliff,
For pebbles and shells to explore;

When, lo! a small barrel was dropp'd from a skiff,
Which floated at length to the shore.

Says Dermot to Pat, we the owner will bilk,
To-night we'll be merry and frisky,

I know it as well as my own mother's milk,
Dear joy! 'tis a barrel of whisky.

Says Pat, I'll soon broach it, O fortunate lot!
(Now Pat, you must know, was a joker)

I'll go to Tom Murphy, who lives in the cot,
And borrow his kitchen hot poker.

'Twas said, and 'twas done—the barrel was bor'd,
(No Bacchanals ever felt prouder)

When Paddy found out a small error on board—
The whisky, alas! was gunpowder!

With sudden explosion, he flew o'er the ocean,
And high in air sported a leg;

Yet instinct prevails, when philosophy fails,
So he kept a tight hold of the keg.

But Dermot bawl'd out, with a terrible shout,
I'm not to be chous'd, Master Wiseman;

If you do not come down, I'll run into the town,
And, by Jesus, I'll tell the exciseman.