France may woo,
Columbia plead, the Jew is still the Jew;
And, spite of weak humanitarian fuss,
CAESAR be praised, the Russ is still the Russ!
* * * * *
A GROUSE OUTRAGE.--Shooting them before the Twelfth.
* * * * *
"WON'T WORK!"
AIR--"_ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN THE MORNING_." _IRISH SPORTSMAN SINGS_:--
[Illustration]
St. Patrick, they say,
Kicked the snakes in the say,
But, ochone! if he'd had such a hound-pack as mine,
I fancy the Saint,
(Without further complaint)
Would have toed the whole troop of them into the brine.
Once they shivered and stared,
At my whip-cracking scared;
Now the clayrics with mitre and crosier and book,
Put the scumfish on me,
And, so far as I see,
There's scarce a dog-crayture
But's changed in his nature.
I must beat some game up by hook or by crook,
But my chances of Sport
Are cut terribly short
On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!
With a thundering polthogue,
And the toe of my brogue,
I'd like to kick both of 'em divil knows where!
Sure I broke 'em meself,
And, so long "on the shelf"
They ought to be docile, the dogs of my care.
O'BRIEN mongrel villin,
And as for cur DILLON
Just look at him ranging afar at his will!
I thought, true as steel,
They would both come to heel,
Making up for the pack
Whistled off by false MAC,
As though _he'd_ ever shoot with _my_ patience and skill!
To me ye'll not stick, Sirs?
What divil's elixirs
Tempt _ye_ on the Twelfth in the morning?
Plague on ye, come back!
Och! ye villainous pack,
Ye slaves of the Saxon, ye blind bastard bunch!
Whelps weak and unstable,
_I_ only am able
The Celt-hating Sassenach wholly to s-c-rr-unch!
Yet for me ye won't work,
But sneak homeward and shirk,
Ye've an eye on the ould spider, GLADSTONE, a Saxon!
He'll sell ye, no doubt.
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