1733 Prose, Anon., 'A North-Country Grace'
Author: Anon.
Date: 1733
Source: ‘A North-Country Grace’, published as an appendix to ‘The North Country-Man’s Description of Christ’s-Church, Dublin, in a Letter to a Friend’, Dublin Printed, re-Printed for J. Roberts, Warwick-Lane, London 1733.
Comments: The anonymous author of this piece was presumably ‘J.S.’ who signed the related piece to which this was added as an appendix. ‘J.S.’ was perhaps Jonathan Swift — see ‘Jonathan Swift: His early writings in Ulster-Scots?’ by Philip Robinson in Ullans, Nummer 3, 1995, pp. 37-48, where this item is also re-published.
Doc. ref. no.: USLS/TB/Prose/1700-1799/002
A North Country GRACE
OH gud G—, weed aw the Papishes out of the Land, weed them as we do the Thistles out of the Corn Ground. Thou can do it, and mun do it, and do it hastily. Digg a muckle Dyke between us and Hell, but a far far muckler between us and the wild Irish. Keep the brow Cow, and the cromed Cow, and Rutty. Grant that the poor ald Heffer stalk not in the Mire, nor smoor in the Dike. Grant that the Meer break not her Tether, nor the Wind blaw down the Keal Stocks. Bless us free aw Witches and Warlocks, and aw lang nebbed Things that creeps intill Heather; but fre that exhorbitant Power o’ France, oh, deliver us! — And, ah thou! that loves neither Priests, Monks, nor Freers, nor the [*]Gillywatsits, the Folk that wears the lang Skeans; wee the Horn till the left, and the wee pickle Snuff in it: Bless and sanctify aw thy good Creatures that weers the good Blue Bonnets, sick as Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob weard, when they ged till the Holy Land o’ Canaan—Rain down a Shower o’ Whuttles upon the B—s, the wallopping Loons, that wears the Lawn Sleeves, that eats up aw the Fat o’ the Land, and will not let a poor Man gan till the D—l wee bare Banes; Oh! we beg o’ thee till take the Kees out o’ their Hands, for mony wrong Cast has the Lock gotten sine they had the Turning o’ them; take them out o’ their Hands, I say, and gar them play clitter clatter upon their Crown, till they cry Maw, like a Cat. — Branks, oh, branks the Pope; brun him, and brun out again, crush him like yen ald Peet Creel, and brun his Bens till Ashes; put down the Whore of Babel, brun her Beeds into Saw-dust, whap them into the Papists Een, that may not find the Gate till ge till Mass. Bless the Lord and the Lady of the House, and aw the Foke that’s here, and my sel as muckle as ony Six of them them aw. Gannet, stick too the Door, see there be ne Irish Loons about the House; gee the Coggs till Batty till Lick, and give us a Coag of Swats.Yer aw kindly welcome, Gentle Folk; and the muckle horned D—l scad aw our Neighbours.
[*] The Hillanders.
