A collection of the play-bills of the Kilkenny theatre shewing all the performances there, 1802 to 1810

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Page 170 - As blithe as if the blessed light Of vernal Phoebus burn'd upon his brow. Oh, Music ! thy celestial claim Is still resistless — still the same ; And faithful as the mighty sea To the pale star that o'er its realms presides ; The spell-bound tides Of human passion rise and fall for thee. Greek Air. List ! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, While from Ilissus...
Page 125 - Like GARRICK, Master of the Thespian art, He sports the Tragic, or the Comic, part. Rul'd by no laws, he shifts his boundless scenes, Casting new walks for Princes, Kings, and Queens. Italian Operas, and Germanic plays, Conspire, his Fortunes, and his Pride, to raise. Europe has wept beneath his Tragic powers, And every State confess'd his sway — but OURS. His Melo-Drames, which first...
Page 105 - But some I miss who say that little worth Attend these sports, for they're of Irish birth. Can Mrs. Coolan in these ranks be found, Once known by Coghlan's more Hibernian sound? For twice ten years in Clonakilty known, She spent last season full six weeks in town. Returned to Admiring friends I heard her say, Readin the peepers while she tests her tay.
Page 171 - tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears ! Oh ! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears ; And, though her fond heart sink with fears, Is proud to feel his young pulse bound With valour's fever at the sound. See, from his native hills afar The rude Helvetian flies to war; Careless for what, for whom he fights, For slave or despot, wrongs or righto ; A conqueror oft— a hero never...
Page 173 - Bless'd notes of mirth ! ye spring from sorrow's lay, Like the sweet vesper of the bird that sings In the bright sunset of an April day, While the cold shower yet hangs upon his wings. Long may the Irish heart repeat An echo to those lively strains ; And when the stranger's ear shall meet That melody on distant plains, Oh ! he will feel his heart expand With grateful warmth, and, sighing, say — Thus speaks the music of the land Where welcome ever lights the stranger's way ; Where, still the woe...
Page 199 - Beauty's cheek appears, (Form'cl by the mournful Muse's mimic sigh) Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears, More sadly shed for genuine misery. Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight, Does the reviving transport perish there; Still, still with Pity's radiance doubly bright, Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care, So if Pomona's golden fruit descend, Shook by some breeze, into the lake below; Quick will the dimple u-Ai'cA it forms extend, Till all around the joyous circles Jlovi.
Page 32 - But could we think it possible that we, Honest confederates in charity,* Should wake the vigilance of pious spleen, To spoil those sports, and mar the good we mean; Yet Doctor Cantwell lifts his eyes to heaven, And hopes such crimes may be at last forgiven. ' Such impious means to give the poor relief, Is adding want to want, and grief to grief ; Better all starve than crimes like these commit, Audience and actors, all shall smart for it. When alms are given, let me dispense the boon ; Heaven smiles...
Page 198 - Amid the ruins of monastic gloom, Where Nore's translucent waters wind along, Genius and wealth have rais'd the tasteful Dome, Yet not alone for Fashion's brilliant throng. In Virtue's cause they take a nobler aim : 'Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend Wit with compassion, tenderness with fame ; Pleasure the means, beneficence the end. There, KILKENNY THEATRE.
Page 125 - We dread no censure, tho' we miss applause. Permit our Fancy then to dramatize, And paint the living characters that rise ; To prove Theatricals are all the fashion, We 11 give Examples of our Ruling Passion. " The times are out of joint— and fraught with cares, " And all the Men, and Women, merely Players.
Page 106 - He walks with and is laughed at by a Lord. But sad misfortune should he chance to meet, Some good old friend, some kinsman in the street. 'Lord! the wild Irish, they in hosts come down, And leave their native bogs to take the town. Oh! What a bore and yet they're right, believe it, To quit that country who have means to leave it.

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