"WON'T WORK!"
AIR—"St. Patrick's Day in the Morning." Irish Sportsman sings:—
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.
Sure, a pig with ring'd snout
Is a far boulder baste
Than such mongrels! The taste
Of the triple-plied thong BULL will lay your base backs on
Will soon make ye moan
That ye left me alone
On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!