Whom Jove endued with every grace;
The glory of the Granard race;
Now destined by the powers divine
The blessing of another line. 
Then, would you paint a matchless dame,
Whom you’d consign to endless fame? 
Invoke not Cytherea’s aid,
Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid;
Nor need you on the Graces call;
Take qualities from Donegal.[4]

[Footnote 1:  See the “Description of a Salamander,” ante, p. 46.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 2:  Denham’s Poem.]

[Footnote 3:  Ante, p. 50.]

[Footnote 4:  Lady Catherine Forbes, daughter of the first Earl of Granard, and second wife of Arthur, third Earl of Donegal.—­Scott.]

THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST

Given by O’Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court.  A song was composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he executed the following very spirited translation.—­W.  E. B.

TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720

O’ROURKE’S noble fare
  Will ne’er be forgot,
By those who were there,
  Or those who were not.

His revels to keep,
  We sup and we dine
On seven score sheep,
  Fat bullocks, and swine.

Usquebaugh to our feast
  In pails was brought up,
A hundred at least,
  And a madder[1] our cup.

O there is the sport! 
  We rise with the light
In disorderly sort,
  From snoring all night.

O how was I trick’d! 
  My pipe it was broke,
My pocket was pick’d,
  I lost my new cloak.

I’m rifled, quoth Nell,
  Of mantle and kercher,[2]
Why then fare them well,
  The de’el take the searcher.

Come, harper, strike up;
  But, first, by your favour,
Boy, give us a cup: 
  Ah! this hath some savour.

O’Rourke’s jolly boys
  Ne’er dreamt of the matter,
Till, roused by the noise,
  And musical clatter,

They bounce from their nest,
  No longer will tarry,
They rise ready drest,
  Without one Ave-Mary.

They dance in a round,
  Cutting capers and ramping;
A mercy the ground
  Did not burst with their stamping.

The floor is all wet
  With leaps and with jumps,
While the water and sweat
  Splish-splash in their pumps.

Bless you late and early,
  Laughlin O’Enagin![3]
But, my hand,[4] you dance rarely. 
  Margery Grinagin.[5]

Bring straw for our bed,
  Shake it down to the feet,
Then over us spread
  The winnowing sheet.

To show I don’t flinch,
  Fill the bowl up again: 
Then give us a pinch
  Of your sneezing, a Yean.[6]