Appeared upon the bar-room wall. 
A short stroke for a half-pint stood,
A longer for a quart was good,
While something like an Eagle’s talon
Upon her blackboard was a gallon. 
And woe to him, who soon or late
His tally did not liquidate;
For when her goodly company
Were all assembled for a spree,
She read off each delinquent’s score,
And at his meanness loudly swore,
And threatened when he next appeared,
Unless the entry all was cleaed,
To lay on future drinks a stricture,
And photograph, perhaps, his picture
In pewter, for the unpaid tally,
As given, I think, in C. O’Malley. 
Old Corkstown was a merry place
On pay-day, when the soaking race
Assembled full of fun and glee
At Mother McGinty’s for a spree,
No total abstinence was known
In those days in that little town,
Nor many nasal organs tainted
For lack of time to get them painted;
No moderate drinker showed his face
Within that much resorted place,
For temperance had not then began
To trench upon the rights of man,
Sure had he trod on danger’s edge
Who dared there to propose the pledge. 
Such monstrous doctrine there had been
Followed by “wigs upon the green.” 
None there refused the offered glass,
Or dared to let the bottle pass
For, casus belli this was strong,
Unless with a good roaring song
The recreant could in his defence
Atone for such most strange offence. 
Sometimes, nay oft, upon the street
Antagonistic friends would meet
By chance, or by some other charm,
To try each other’s strength of arm,
And without legal process settle
Disputes, like men of taste and mettle;
And while strict “Fair Play” ruled the fight,
It was a sort of rough delight
For youthful souls while hanging round
That ancient famous battle ground,
To note who first the claret drew—­
who first down his opponent threw—­
Who first produced the limner’s dyes
Beneath his neighbor’s damaged eyes,
Or sowed the trodden ground beneath
With smashed incisors, like the teeth,
The dragon’s tusks of ancient ken
From which sprung hosts of armed men. 
Such pastime was a frequent thing,
The entertainment of the ring,
Without equestrian or clown
Was often seen in Cork’s own town,
And best, for impecunious boys
Who boasted few of modern joys,
Who daily went to see the play
Had no admission fee to pay. 
But gone is Corkstown, vanished too
The whitewashed shanty from our view,
Where once the minstrel’s youthful eyes
Beheld strange orgies with surprise. 
In dust its stalwart hostess now,
Reposes, placid is the brow
That once frowned terror o’er the throng
While revelling in the dance and song,
Gone with them are the fading dyes
Which tinged fair childhood’s happy skies,
The brilliant firmament of youth
Has vanished, and but leaves the truth
Written wherever mortals range
That things below are doomed to change.