A Broadside: No. 5 Second Year
300 copies only.
AMBITION IN CUFFE STREET
When I grow big I'll smoke and swear
And drink like my old fellow there.
I'll smoke till all the air is thick,
I'll drink five pints and not feel sick.
I'll used bad language to my fill ..
I will ..
On a high stool for hours I'll sit,
Or lean against the door and spit.
I'll drain each pint to the last sup
And tell the man to hurry up,
Till I have had five tankards, yes,
I'll talk with Jemmy Connolly,
(He'll have grown old and fat like me)
We'll talk of women and everything
And then, perhaps we'll start to sing.
We'll start to sing, and fight, and shout,
'Twill take three men to chuck us out ..
By God, the things that I could do
MISS SHERIDAN'S COFFEE
To Miss Sheridan, on her having made coffee for the author the preceeding evening. Composed the following morning while breakfasting alone. Marck 14, 1841
Your Coffee it was very strong, bright eyed Miss Sheridan,
And like a subtle spriit through all my veins it ran,
Making me feel more like a god than a mortal man,
As I sat on the sofa beside you, bright-eyed miss Sheridan
Your coffee it was very sweet, silken-haired Miss Sheridan,
Far sweeter than the famous honey that once flowed in Canaan,
Or the nectar quaffed of yore in celestial divan,
And no wonder, for it was you made it, silken-haired Miss Sheridan,
Your coffee it was very hot, linnet-voiced Miss Sheridan,
And it warmed the heart's cockles of a chilly old man,
Sending him home warmer than if he had a warming-pan,
To think of nothing but you all night, linnet-voiced Miss Sheridan.
Your coffee was more fragrant, ruby-lipped Miss Sheridan,
Than Eau de Millefleurs or Parfum de Jasmin,
Or any perfume of your own sweet breath, ruby-lipped Miss Sheridan.
The coffee I have this morning, lily-armed Miss Sheridan,
Is as different from last night's as Drogheda from Japan,
Or the coarsest sole leather from the finest cordovan,
Just because you are not here to make it, lily-armed Miss Sheridan.
My toast is burned to a cinder, rosy-fingered Miss Sheridan.
My butter is only fit to be put into the frying-pan;
And my milk would water the garden if it were poured through the watering can,
How could it be otherwise when you are far away from me, rosy-fingeredd Miss Sheridan?
Essy tells me it's a sunny morning, kind-hearted Miss Sheridan,
And wonders why I look as grave as a Brahmin or Mussulman;
But she little dreams I am thinking of you and your coffee-can -
Oh! when will you make coffee for me again, kind-hearted Miss Sheridan?