ELEGY ON HIMSELF.

Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourned This priest devout; Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurned The bones of Prout! Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column His place of rest, Whose soul, above earth’s homage, meek, yet solemn, Sits ’mid the blest. Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebuke O’erawed sheep-stealers; And rogues feared more the good man’s single look Than forty Peelers. He’s gone, and discord soon I ween will visit The land with quarrels; And the foul demon vex with stills illicit The village morals. No fatal chance could happen more to cross The public wishes; And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss, Except the fishes; For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring Preferred to gammon. Grim death has broke his angling rod: his berring Delights the salmon. No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout, For fasting pittance— Arts which St. Peter loved, whose gate to Prout Gave prompt admittance. Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep His sainted dust, The bad man’s death it well becomes to weep— Not so the just! Francis Sylvester Mahony (“Father Prout”) (1804–1866).