Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, “Honest Jo,
Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go.” 
He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks,
For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man’s box. 
And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace,
Good lord!  I wonder how I dared to look him in the face: 
Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain;
He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain. 
“Then,” said my lord, “I’m very glad to see thee, honest friend,
I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend,
Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can;
I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man.” 
Then said his lordship with a smile, “I must have lawful cash,
I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood’s trash!”
“God bless your Grace,” I then replied, “I’d see him hanging higher,
Before I’d touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire.” 
To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke,
Our parsons read the Drapier’s books, and make us honest folk. 
And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found,
His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound;
“Why, sirrah,” said the noble squire, “how dare you see my face,
Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace.” 
And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack,
That only for the bishop’s lease ’twould quickly break my back. 
Then God preserve his lordship’s grace, and make him live as long
As did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song.

TO HIS GRACE THE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN

A POEM

  Serus in coelum redeas, diuque
  Laetus intersis populo.—­HOR., Carm. I, ii, 45.

Great, good, and just, was once applied
To one who for his country died;[l]
To one who lives in its defence,
We speak it in a happier sense. 
O may the fates thy life prolong! 
Our country then can dread no wrong: 
In thy great care we place our trust,
Because thou’rt great, and good, and just: 
Thy breast unshaken can oppose
Our private and our public foes: 
The latent wiles, and tricks of state,
Your wisdom can with ease defeat. 
When power in all its pomp appears,
It falls before thy rev’rend years,
And willingly resigns its place
To something nobler in thy face. 
When once the fierce pursuing Gaul
Had drawn his sword for Marius’ fall,
The godlike hero with a frown
Struck all his rage and malice down;
Then how can we dread William Wood,
If by thy presence he’s withstood? 
Where wisdom stands to keep the field,
In vain he brings his brazen shield;
Though like the sibyl’s priest he comes,
With furious din of brazen drums
The force of thy superior voice
Shall strike him dumb, and quell their noise.