ST. Ruth is Dead! is Dead! Yes, by my Shoul,
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And we will make the Irish Cry and Houl;
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We'll Houl so loud, and make so great a do,
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The Devils shall wonder at our Hubbaboo.
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By all the Shaints in Heaven, Earth, Sea and Hell,
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I can no l[on]ger my Sad Griefs conceal;
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But all the World in Blubb'ring Tears must know,
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How many Sighs to Dear St. Ruth I owe:
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Dear Shoul (Plague take thee) Prithee why did'st Dye,
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And go to Heaven without my Company?
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Faith 'twas unkindly done, and like an Ass,
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I fear Shaint Peter won't accept thy Pass;
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He's an Old Surly Shaint, Dear Joy, and knows
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Cuckows from Nightingals, and Doves from Crows.
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With me thou would'st not have been disappointed,
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I and Shaint Peter have been long acquainted;
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If thou'rt in Hell, and dost not fare no better,
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Prithee Joy be so kind and send a Letter:
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Merits like thine do surely Merit Glory,
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At best I'll fancy thou'rt in Purgatory;
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I in those Humhums have a many Friends,
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Who love me dearly for their proper ends:
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There they may lye like poor contented Asses,
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Unless their Friends on Earth will pay for Masses.
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And, a Plague take 'em, they are all so poor,
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They hardly find me Pence to keep my Whore:
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Tell 'em they must not abs'lutely Dispair,
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I now and then afford 'em a short Prayer;
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But 'tis, Shaint Patrick knows, 'tis very true,
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When I have very little else to do.
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But Joy, I'll put the Shaints in mind of thee,
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They will not sure be Deaf Dear Crum a Cree.
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But above all the num'rous Shaints that be,
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The Female Shaints were best belov'd by thee,
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For when all day thou hadst in Blood-shed been in,
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I know at night thou would'st be Folding Linnin;
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The Female Shaints shall get thee from that Hell-house,
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Like Maids who Marry Fellows under Gallows.
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Matters, Dear Joy, have gone but very ill,
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Since Sawcy Bullet made on thee the Kill:
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