Michael O'Reilly comes to view;
A man of stature, somewhat brief,
Who largely dealt of old in beef,
In that cheap time when scanty coin
Was ample for the fattest loin,
Rounds, chops, and beefsteaks were not gold
In those delightful days of old.
'Tis true the tallow-candle's light
Was all the ray that cheered the night,
Before our first assizes term
Was dignified by actual sperm--
The real thing--no "Belmont's" then
Were found among the sons of men.
Another name remembrance brings,
The muse of old John Darcey sings,
In numbers almost a magician--
A wonderful arithmetician,
Whose mode with all others "collided,"
Who added, multiplied, divided,
And even substracted by such rules
As ne'er were known or taught at schools.
No learned professor of the birch
E'er left John Darcey in the lurch;
No pedagogue was ever able
To con his arithmetic table.
And Edward Darcey--no relation--
Except in name, to old Equation,
A son of Crispin, a sole nailer,
Who owned a curly dog called "Sailor"--
A noble, liver-hue'd retriever,