An Elegie to the Memory of Richard Earl of Tyrconnel

In Irish Verse, in a bog-trotting Srain,
My grumbling Muse comes huffing, in disdain,
To this sad Herse, whereon Tyrconnel lies,
Whose Fame deserves a Thousand Elegies.

Dear Joy, He was a Man of great Renown,
Till adverse Fortune threw the Champion down:
For his Exploits, with Musquet and with Cannon,
I take for Witness Limerick and the Shannon.
His Luck was nought, although he did prove true
To Babel's Whore, and Bastard Lewis too.
When Fortune smil'd, he was imperious proud,
And falling down he sunk in Seas of Blood;
Contentious, cruel, base: But why should I,
When dead with Scorpions, whip his Memory.
Then hold my Muse; and in a sober Verse,
Strew Christian sighs about the dead Man's Herse.

Man's made of Dust, and broke with Grief and Care;
A guilded Statue that's blown up with Air;
His Child-hood's crying, and his Youth is vain;
His Man-hood's sorrow, and's Old-age a Pain.
'Twixt Wind and Wave, and Storms of Church and State,
He's toss'd and tumbled to a Tragick Fate.
If Time but smile then his ambitious Eyes,
Stares up aloft into promotions Skies;
And fawning Fortune, with her flattering Wings,
Brings him in favour with the greatest Kings.
She bears him up vain glorious, in disdain,
With greater force, to let him fall again.
This Object of our Joy and Grief doth show,
What mortal Men at Times must undergo.
The Charms of Rome, which blind the simples Eyes,
Made him intend a foolish Enterprize;
Eclips'd his Reason to believe a Lye,
And Idolize perverted Loyalty.
He that would pay Allegiance to his King,
With Loyalty must a good Conscience bring;
Not as this Dear Joy steer'd, 'gainst Tide and Wind,
And left Religion on the Shoar behind.
And turn'd at last, so false in every thing.
That he prov'd Traitor to his Popish King:
With all his Force and Power strove to advance,
The Interest of the Tyrant King of France.
He that contrive his King and Countries Fall,
Is False, Perfidious, and a Cannibal.
Duty to Man, when what we ow's laid by,
Unto our Maker's, but Idolatry.
Not Zeal blindfolded, nor the Romish Cause,
Can overturn Religion and the Laws.
No Peradventure of a shallow Brain,
Can cut the Church, and rend the State in twain;
There is a Power above all humane Things,
That rules below, and guides the Fate of Kings.

Then Plotters and Conspirators in Treason,
(That sore aloft above the Sphere of Reason)
Throw off your Vizards, and wash off your Paint,
Which makes a Devil, sometimes, appear a Saint.
Lay by your Plots, and all your black Designs,
'Ere divine Fate blow up your secret Mines.
Incensed Vapours, that's compos'd of Air,
Leap from Earth's Bowels to a higher Sphere,
And turn to Comets, where they do remain,
Threatning a while, and vanish quite again.
Even so those Spirits, that would still aspire,
Transgress their Bounds, and perish in desire.

But as for this our Popish, Irish Saint,
Who sweet St. Patrick's help did never want,
He's fallen asleep, Dear Joy, and let him ly,
Depriv'd of Life, Sense, Truth, and Loyalty.

Below this Stone interr'd doth ly,
Rebellion both and Loyalty.
An honest Dear Joy: that was full
Of Plots as empty as his Skull,
In health, no Man could well endure him,
No Bonny-Clobber, sick, could cure him.
His Life was cruel, curs'd and ill;
And now he's dead against his Will:
But since he's gone, here let him ly,
A Map of false Fidelity.