Poem by Francis Sylvester Mahony (Father Prout)

The Town of Passage

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.

1. The Bells of Shandon
2. The Flight into Egypt

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