LITTLE PERU,
OR THE
WICKLOW GOLD-MINE.
I.
My sweet native land, the first place of my birth there,
Good luck to you dear if the story be true,
In your bowels I’m told on the face of the earth there,
Lies Mexico’s wealth, a snug little Peru;
Back to Ireland I’ll trot and fall digging for riches,
These two eyes no longer shall pewter behold,
For a pair I’ll get measur’d of ready-made breeches,
And copper both pockets with pure virgin gold.
II.
Come then brother Pats and pack up your odd matters,
Leave nothing behind you but what you can take,
’Tis your turn to laugh at John Bull’s rags and tatters,
No longer at Pat can he fun and game make.
No more with sweet butter-milk whitewash your bodies,
No more with potatoes your full stomachs cram,
As Plutus, not Patrick, old Ireland’s rich God is,
Drink champaign and venison, with rasberry jam.
III.
You chairmen from Ireland, big blackguards call’d ponies,
Case you up and down, fan away tabbies in chairs,
You’ll soon be all jontlemen and macaronies,
If your prize in Peru only comes up in shares.
I think I now see you all swell, strut, and swagger,
With big lumps of nature’s coin’d gold in your hand,
When by whiskey tight-laced up St. James’s you stagger,
Bid tabbies go carry themselves and be d—d.
IV.
And you flashy captains who oft go recruiting,
’Mongst England’s brisk widows, fond daughters and wives,
Leave war for a peace, and don’t be after shooting
Of Frenchmen, to frighten them out of their lives.
What’s honour and glory to flush ready rhino,
Without which no captain can keep up the ball,
Quick march to Peru, the sweet spot you and I know,
Fill your bellies with full pay and half-pay and all.
V.
Oh! you my Bath Bobadils hunting for acres,
And shaking your elbows, cry seven’s the main,
For the bodies of belles you’re the live undertakers,
But you take them, it’s true, for no prospect of gain.
It’s not for a gold-mine you Bobadils marry,
’Tis all for pure love, beauty, temper, and grace!
’Tis for kindness and tenderness said Captain Larry,
Who kill’d his last wife by too tight an embrace.
VI.
Ye limbs of the law living on little pittances,
Fertile in quibbles, tho’ barren in fees,
Yet pregnant with bother ’bout Irish remittances,
Which you mighty well know never cross the salt seas;
Leave the law’s crooked path for the straight path of pleasure,
The road to Peru is the turnpike to wealth;
And when you walk thro’ it pursuing your treasure,
Pay as you come back, when your purse is in health.
VII.
You gentlemen all in St. Giles’s gay quarter,
To carry a hod, make you shoulder an ass,
My tight peep of day boys, leave stones, bricks, and mortar,
Come one after t’other, rise all in a mass.
Go taste but the water of Wicklow’s clear fountain,
And then, in a moment, you’ll miracles find;
By the stream that runs up to the top of the mountain,
Like a watch case of gold will your bodies be lin’d.
VIII.
And you L—M—M like penny-post walking,
All up and down London to bother the stones,
In a pair of jack boots there no longer be stalking,
But to Ireland convey yourself, body, and bones.
As an absentee go and dwell on your estate then,
“Lay the root to the axe” of your tenants distress,
A slice of Peru for old Pompey the great then,
Will make him look bigger sure never the less.
IX.
And you father O’Burke, first of Irish defenders,
Of war and corruption, of tyrants and slaves,
Protector of kings, not of humbug pretenders,
So you pray for their lives, and keep digging their graves.
As their old priest and sexton you’ve got a snug pension,
The gift of our king, wealthy, worthy, and wise;
’Twas to make you see clearer, ah! lucky invention,
He threw the gold dust of Peru in your eyes.
X.
Jew Aaron of old, in the absence of Moses,
Set up a gold calf, a strange fancy I think;
When Moses came back, they pull’d each others noses,
Burnt the gold calf, and mixt it with water to drink.
To be sure for pure gold with some silver alloy now,
I shan’t be of worship and gratitude full;
But I make a calf when you know my dear joy now,
For half the expence I can make a nate bull.
XI.
While planning prosperity for brother paddies dear,
I took up the news, called the National Star;
I read it aloud, and was mightily vex’d to hear
Peru had been seiz’d for the king, not the war.
So said I to myself, talking to a bye-stander,
I hate all damn’d wars and their consequent ills;
But Peru for the king, sedition and slander,
’Tis to pay future ministers’ blunders and bills.