AN ELEGY To the Memory of Richard Earl of Tyrconnel, Late Deputy of Ireland, and General of the Bog-trotting Army, who departed this Life in Limerick, on Tuesday August the 8th. 1691.  

In Irish Verse, in a bog-trotting Srain,  
My grumbling Muse comes huffing, in disdain,  
To this sad Hearse, 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 Musket 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 smiled, 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 Hearse.   

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.  
Betwixt Wind and Wave, and Storms of Church and State,  
He's tossed and tumbled to a Tragic Fate.  
If Time but smile then his ambitious Eyes,  
Stairs 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 Enterprise;  
Eclipsed his Reason to believe a Lie,  
And Idolise perverted Loyalty.  
He that would pay Allegiance to his King,  
With Loyalty must a good Conscience bring;  
Not as this Dear Joy steered, 'gainst Tide and Wind,  
And left Religion on the Shoar behind.  
And turned at last, so false in every thing.  
That he proved 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 owes 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 composed of Air,  
Leap from Earth's Bowels to a higher Sphere,  
And turn to Comets, where they do remain,  
Threatening 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 lie,  
Deprived of Life, Sense, Truth, and Loyalty.    

EPITAPH.  

BElow this Stone interred doth lie,  
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, cursed and ill;  
And now he's dead against his Will:  
But since he's gone, here let him lie,  
A Map of false Fidelity.   
FINIS.