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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79.


The Town of Passage

By Francis Sylvester Mahony (Father Prout) (1804–1866)

THE TOWN of Passage

Is both large and spacious,

And situated

Upon the say;

’T is nate and dacent,

And quite adjacent

To come from Cork

On a summer’s day.

There you may slip in

To take a dipping,

Forenent the shipping

That at anchor ride;

Or in a wherry

Cross o’er the ferry

To “Carrigaloe,

On the other side.”

Mud cabins swarm in

This place so charming,

With sailors’ garments

Hung out to dry;

And each abode is

Snug and commodious,

With pigs melodious

In their straw-built sty.

’T is there the turf is,

And lots of Murphies,

Dead sprats and herrings,

And oyster-shells;

Nor any lack, O!

Of good tobacco,

Though what is smuggled

By far excels.

There are ships from Cadiz,

And from Barbadoes,

But the leading trade is

In whiskey-punch;

And you may go in

Where one Molly Bowen

Keeps a nate hotel

For a quiet lunch.

But land or deck on,

You may safely reckon,

Whatsoever country

You come hither from,

On an invitation

To a jollification

With a parish priest

That ’s called “Father Tom.”

Of ships there ’s one fixt

For lodging convicts,—

A floating “stone jug”

Of amazing bulk;

The hake and salmon,

Playing at backgammon,

Swim for divarsion

All round this hulk.

There “Saxon” jailers

Keep brave repailers

Who soon with sailors

Must anchor weigh

From th’ em’rald island,

Ne’er to see dry land

Until they spy land

In sweet Bot’ny Bay.