%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> PATRICK O'NEAL, / Or, the Irishman's Description of a Man of War. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer ?-? Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 07/08/2014 33425

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

O YE sons of Hibernia, who're snug on dry land, / Round your sparkling turf fires, with whiskey in hand, Patrick O'Neal Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 929 PATRICK O'NEAL, / Or, the Irishman's Description of a Man of War. PATRICK O'NEAL, Or, the Irishman's Description of a Man of War. Printer J. Pitts ?-?

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol Americas animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family Featured folklore gender holidays/ seasons infidelity labor/ craft law London love maritime marriage military/ war monstrosity mythology/ Classical news nobility/ court politics/ government procreation punishment race/ ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious groups royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 7/8/2014 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America alcohol country/ nation maritime military/ war servitude Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 7/8/2014 2:08:42 PM XBallad Bell, Erik Created XML Version of Ballad 7/8/2014 2:08:42 PM Transcription Supervisor Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/8/2014 2:08:42 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Doran, Thomas Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/8/2014 2:08:42 PM Transcriptionist Two Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/8/2014 2:08:42 PM Transcriptionist One Yonker, Tori Transcription of ballad manuscript 12/4/2013 Checker Christopher Foley Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 11/6/2012 Bibliographer Shannon Meyer Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created
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O YE sons of Hibernia, who're snug on dry land, Round your sparkling turf fires, with whiskey in hand, Drink a health to la ma fe and think on the boys, Who're fighting your battles through tempest and noise; O attend to my ditty it's true I declare! Such fwimmings and linkings will make you all stare, Such storms, squibs, and crackers, all whiz'd at my tail, Since the press gang laid hold of poor Patrick O'Neal. O it was on April the first I set off like a fool, From Kilkenny to Dublin to see Laurence Tool, My mother's third cousin who often wrote down, For to come and to see how he florish'd in town; But scarce had I set my foot in that terrible place, When a spalpeen came and stared in my face, He called to a pressgang who came without fail, And soon neck and crap carried poor Patrick O'Neal. They scampered away as they thought with a prize, Taking me for a sailo[r], you see, in disguise, But a terrible blunder they made in their strife, For I ne'er saw the sea nor a ship in my life; Then straight to a Tender they made me repair, But of tenderness devil a morsel was there! Och! I raved, stampt, and cursed, but it did not avail, Por they would not let me go, O poor Patrick O'Neal. The next morn from Dublin they sailed with their prey, I was half starv'd and sea sick the rest of the way, Not a mile stone I saw not a house nor a bed, It was all water and sky till we came to Spithead; Then they call'd up all hands, hands and feet soon obey'd, O I wished myself at home digging paraties with a spade, For the first sight I saw caused my spirits to fail, Twas a big swimming castle for Patrick O'Neal.
O this terrible monster rolled about in the tide, And two great rows of teeth were stuck fast in his side, They bid me to mount and desired me to keep, A fast hold with my trotters for fear I should slip; So I let go with my hands to hold fast by my toes, But the ship gave a reel and so down my head goes, I fell plump into the water and splash'd like a whale, Till pretty well pickled was Patrick O'Neal. With a great swell of laughter they hoisted me in, To the huge wooden world full of riot and din, What strings and what pullies attracted my eye, And how large were the sheets that were hung out to dry; It seem'd Noah's ark, stuff'd with different guests, Hogs, pedlars, geese, sailors, and all other beasts, Some drank bladders of gin, and some pitchers of ale, While some sat and laugh'd at poor Patrick O'Neal. Then a rough mouth'd rapscallian on deck did advance, So hoarse he whistled which made them all prance, Up the ropes like monkies some ran, and some I declare, Like gibbers or rope dancers hung in the air; Then they clapt stick in the capstern, as I afterwards found Where a chap sat and fifed while the twirled him round, So the ship raised her anchor, spread her wings and set sail, With a freight of life lumber and Patrick O'Neal. Then to go down below I exprest a great wish, Where they live under water like so many fish, I was clapt in a mess with some more of the crew, They call'd it banyan day ------ so gave me burgoo; For a bed, I'd a sack hung as high as my chin, They call'd it a hammock and bid me jump in, I took a great leap but my footing was frail, For clane over canted was Patrick O'Neal.
The devil a wink could I sleep all the night, And awoke the next morning in a terrible fright, Up hammocks, down chests, they began for to bawl, Here's a Frenchman in sight, sure! says I, is that all? Then to a gun I was station'd, they cry'd with an oath, To pull of his breeches and unmuzzle his mouth, They took off the apron that cover'd his tail, And his lading strings gave to poor Patrick O'Neal. Then we hauld up our large window shutters with speed And run out our bull dogs of true British breed, Then the captain cried England and Ireland my boys, When he said Ireland my heart made a noise; Then the noise of our guns did the Frenchmen defy, They clapt fire on his back, and bid him let fly, While the creature gave mouth I held fast by the tail, But he kickt and run over poor Patrick O'Neal. Thus we rattled away, by my soul, hob a nob, Till the French gave up as he thought a bad job, Then to tie him behind a large cord they did bring, And we led him along like a pig in a string; So home to old England we drag'd the French boy, Oh! the sight of the land made me sea sick for joy, Then they made a fresh peace when the war grew too stale, And set all hands adrift with poor Patrick O'Neal. So now on dry land a safe course I can steer, The cat-head, cat-block, or boatswain's cat I don't fear, Whilstt there's shot in the locker Ill sing Ill be bound, And Saturday Night shall last all the week round, But if peace grows too stale and war calls amain, By the pipers of Limster Ill venture again, Ill make another dry voyage and bring home such a tale, That youll laugh till you cry at poor Patrick O'Neal.
Printed and Sold by J. PITTS, 14, Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials. PRICE ------ ONE PENNY.