But being got upon firm Land again, as I said before, I was very glad of visiting the _Irish_ Natives, tho’ they are not yet wholly brought to a civil Course of Life, thro’ the Fathers inflicting an heavy Curse on all their Posterity, if ever they should sow Corn, build Houses, or learn the _English_ Tongue: And the Reason of this inveterate Antipathy is, because heretofore there being but one Freeholder in a whole County, which was the Lord himself, the rest held in Villanage; and being subject to the Lord’s immeasurable Taxations, they had no Encouragement to build, sow, or plant. _Ireland_ is divided into 4 Provinces; namely, _Munster_; _Leinster_, where _Stonehenge_ once stood, but by _Magick_ Art _Merlin_ remov’d those ponderous Stones out of this Territory into _Wiltshire_; _Connaught_, where are some Vines, but rather serving for Shade than Profit, for in these Parts the Sun entring into _Virgo_, causeth cold Gales to blow, and in Autumn the Afternoon’s Heat is so faint and short, that it cannot ripen the Clusters; and _Ulster_, whose antient Custom in making their King was by taking a white Cow, which his _Irish_ Majesty must kill, and seeth the same in Water whole, then must he bath himself therein stark naked; and sitting in the Caldron wherein it is sod, accompanied with the People round about him, he and they eat the Flesh, and drink the Broth (much Good may’t do ’em) without Cup, Dish or Spoon. No sooner was I arriv’d at _Dublin_, but being in Company with some Collegians of _Trinity-College_ there, which is all the Colleges their University contains, they to shew their extraordinary Parts to me a Stranger in a poetick Way, made Verses _ex tempore_, and I to Oblige them writ off of Hand the following Lines.
_When pious ~Israel~, by ~Jehovah~ blest, Had been four hundred Years and more opprest, By haughty ~Pharaoh~’s arbitrary Sway, Which Doom’d the ~Hebrew~ Vassals to Obey, It pleas’d the Pow’r of an Almighty Hand To Scourge a stubborn King, and sinful Land, With ten afflictions, grievous to a Realm, Where Pride and Superstition sat at Helm. Yet Wrath Divine was not so much Display’d, To make a wise Creator be Obey’d, But that indulging Heaven kept in store, For ~Ireland~, a dozen Plagues and more. Nits make their Youths, before they’re Old, look Grey, And rampant Lice upon their Bodies Prey; Their Summer Visiters are Swarms of Fleas, Which Sting the Females that they can’t have Ease. Poverty Nips ’em, Ign’rance is their Guide, And Sloth in Triumph thro’ their Cabbins ride. Misery for lazy Lives they Celebrate; And Loyalty (which proves their Ruin) hate. Their chiefest Talent much in Nonsense lies; And honest Principles they all Dispise. Devotion is a Stranger to their Thoughts, And small Temptations make their Women Morts. But that which adds to their intailed Curse, Is store of Children, but an empty Purse. Thus, if these are not Plagues enough, may Pox, And all the Ails which cram’d ~Pandora~’s Box, Always severely Torture them; and be The Portion of their wild Posterity._
