BELLEWSTOWN HILL.

If a respite ye’d borrow from turmoil or sorrow, I’ll tell you the secret of how it is done; ’Tis found in this statement of all the excitement That Bellewstown knows when the races come on. Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty, Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill, In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper, And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill! On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion, It Banagher bangs, by the table o’ war! From the coach of the quality, down to the jollity Jogging along on an ould jaunting-car. Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste, Its jigging and jumping to mollify still; Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly, From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill. In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers, Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows; While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing, Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes. More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn’t sticky, But bounds from the boards like a pea from a quill. Oh, ’twould cure a rheumatic,—he’d jump up ecstatic, At “Tatter Jack Welsh” upon Bellewstown Hill. Oh, ’tis there ’neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks, In chattering groups that the quality dine; Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers, In flattery spout and come out mighty fine. And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are “having” ’Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille. All we read in the pages of pastoral ages Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill. Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at, From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends, There’s no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland! To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends. And the soil ’neath your feet has a memory sweet, The patriots’ deeds they hallow it still; Eighty-two’s volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!) Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill. But hark! there’s a shout—the horses are out,— ’Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo! To old Crock-a-Fatha, the people that dot the Broad plateau around are all for a view. “Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I’ll bet on the yellow! Success to the green! faith, we’ll stand by it still!” The uplands and hollows they’re skimming like swallows, Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill. Anonymous.