180
SWIFT'S POEMS.
O there is the sport!
We rise with the light
In disorderly sort,
From snoaring 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[1]:
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'Rourk's jolly boys
Ne'er dreamt of the matter,
'Till, rous'd 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,
- ↑ A covering of linen worn on the heads of the women.
While
