Pat. Tey drink no bonny clabbe, i' fayt, now.|
Don. It ish better ten usquebagh to daunsh vit Patrick.
Pat. By my faters hand tey vill daunsh very vell.
Der. I by S. Patrick vill tey; for tey be nimble men.
Den. And vill leap ash light, be creesh save me, ash he
tat veares te biggest fether in ty Court, King Yamish.
Der. For all tey have no good vindsh to blow tem he-
ter, nor elementsh to presherve 'hem.
Don. Nor all te four cornersh o'te World, to creep out
Pat. But tine own Kingdomes.
Don. Tey be honesht men.
Pat. And goot men: tine own shubshects.
Der. Tou hasht very good shubshects in Ireland.
Den. A great goot many, o' great goot shubshects.
Don. Tat love ty Mayesty heartily.
Den. And vill run t'rough fire and vater for tee, over te
bog, and te Bannoke, be te graish o' Got, and graish o'
Der. By got, tey vill fight for tee, King Yamish, and for
my mistrish tere.
Den. And my little maishter.
Pat. And te ufrow, ty daughter, tat is in Tuchland.
Don. Tey vill spend ter heart, in ter belly for tee, as vell
as ter legs, in ter heelsh.
Der. By creesh, tey vill shpend all teyr cowesh for tee.
Den. Pre tee make mush on 'tem.
Pat. Pre tee, sweet faysh do.
Don. Be not angry vit te honesh men, for te few rebelsh,
Pat. Nor beleeve, no tayles, King Yamish.
Der. For, by got, tey love tee in Ireland.
Don. Pre tee, bid 'em velcome, and got make 'em rish
Der. Tey vill make tem shelves honesht.
Den. Tou hasht not a hundret tousand sush men by my
Pat. No, nor forty, by my hant.
Don. By justish Delounes hant, not twenty.
Der. By my Lord Deputish hant not ten, in all ti great
Brittayne. Shall I call hem to tee?
Don. Tey shit like poore men i' te porsh yonder.
Pat. Shtay te peepe i'sh come! harke, harke.
Der. Let ush daunsh ten. Daunsh Dennise.
Den. By creesh sa'me I ha' forgot.
Don. A little till our mayshtersh be ready.
Here the Foot-men had a dance, being six men, and six boys, to
the bagpipe, and other rude musick, after which they had a
song, and then they cried,
Peash. Peash. Now room for our mayshters. Room for
Then the Gentlemen dance forth a dance in their Irish mantles, to
a solemn Musick of Harpes: which done, the foot-men fell
to speak again, till they were interrupted by a civil Gentle-
man of the Nation, who brings in a Bard.
Der. How like tou tish Yamish? And tey had fine cloyshs
now, and liveries, like tine own men and be.
Don. But te rugs make t'em shrug a little.
Der. Tey have shit a great phoyle i' te cold, and be
Don. Isht not pitty te cloysh be drown'd now?
Pat. Pre tee shee another daunsh, and be not veary.
Gent. He may be of your rudeness. Hold your tongues.
And let your courser manners seek some place,
Fit for their wildness. This is none, be gone.
Advance, immortal Bard, come up and view
The gladding face of that great King, in whom
So many prophecies of thine are knit.
This is that James of which long since thou sung'st,
Should end our Countries most unnatural broiles;
And if her ear, then deafned with the drum,
Would stoop but to the Musick of his peace,
She need not with the Sphears change harmony.
This is the man thou promis'dst should redeem,
If she would love his counsels as his laws,
Her head from servitude, her feet from fall,
Her fame from barbarisme, her state from want,
And in her all the fruits of blessing plant.
Sing then some charme, made from his present looks,
That may assure thy former prophecies,
And firm the hopes of these obedient spirits,
Whose love no less, than duty, hath call'd forth
Their willing powers: who if they had much more,
Would do their All, and think they could not move
Enough to honor that, which he doth love.
Here the Bard sings to two Harps.
S O N G 1.
OW both your heads at once, and hearts:|
Obedience doth not well in parts.
It is but standing in his eye,
You'll feel your selves chang'd by and by.
Few live, that know, how quick a spring
Works in the presence of a King:
'Tis done by this; your slough let fall,
And come forth new-born creatures all.
In this song, the Masquers let fall their mantles, and discovered
their masquing apparel. Then dance forth.
After the dance the Bard sings this.
S O N G 2.
O breaks the Sun earths rugged chains,|
Wherein rude winter bound her veins;
So grows both stream and source of price,
That lately fetter'd were with ice.
So naked trees get crisped heads,
And colour'd coats the roughest meads,
And all get vigour, youth, and spright,
That are but look'd on by his light.