If beggars on horseback will ride--to Clontarf; If tailors will caper with truncheon and scarf, At Sunday carousels, all know, I'm in flower, My taste for the grape don't extend to the shower. Besides, those blue pills disagree with my chyle, So, hurrah!--pence and peace for the grand Emerald Isle! If the scoffer should ask, what the deuce brought you there? Of course, it was only to taste the fresh air; To pick cowslips and daisies; and brush off the dew, Or drink gin o'er the tombstone of Brian Boru. As to flags, and all that; 'twas but doing in style, The honours of Freedom to Erin's green isle. Then, as to your "Squadrons," your "Mount for Repeal," 'Twas merely to teach them the "Right about wheel," By the word of command from the Saxon to run, As your leader would fly from a bailiff or dun; In short, since a miss is as good as a mile, Swear the whole was a humbug for Erin's green isle. Besides, these are delicate moments to croak, Since the Saxon's new plan of a word and a stroke. My mind is made up, like a poodle or pug, No longer to stir from my berth on the rug; Though the bold may revile me, so let them revile-- I'm determined to _live_ for old Erin's green isle. I _proclaim_--that the Saxon will tremble to meet The heroes of Erin; but, boys, life is sweet. I _proclaim_--that your shout frightens Europe's base thrones; But remember, my boys, there is luck in whole bones; So, take the advice of a friend--wait a while, In a century or two you'll revenge the Green Isle. I know in my soul, at the very first shot That your whole monster meeting would fly at full trot; What horrid mêlée, then, of popping and flashing! At least I'LL not share in your holiday thrashing; Brawl at Sugden and Smith, but beware "rank and file"-- They're too rough for the lambkins of Erin's green isle. Observe, my dear boys, if you once get me hang'd, 'Tis fifty to one if you'll e'er be harangued. Farewell to the pleasure of paying the "Rint"-- Farewell to all earth's vilest nonsense in print-- Farewell to the feast of your gall and your guile-- All's over at once with the grand Emerald Isle. * * * * * THE FIREMAN'S SONG. "Ho, comrade, up! awake, arise! look forth into the night: Say, is yon gleam the morning-beam, yon broad and bloody light? Say, does it tell--yon clanging bell--of mass or matin song? Yon drum-roll--calls it to parade the soldier's armèd throng?" "No, brother, no! no morning-beam is yonder crimson glare! Yon deep bell tolls no matin--'tis the tocsin's hurried blare! Yon sullen drum-roll mutters out no summons to parade: To fight the flame it summons us--the valiant Fire-Brigade!"