Shall you whose scanty fare was roots,
But richer now by blacking boots,
Rise like O’Bulger and such hacks,
And fling your brogues at heads of blacks,
And trample the poor wretches down
To gulfs as deep as were your own?
Your country cries; “My sons, for shame,
Shall you too fan the tyrant’s flame?”
’Tis thus with “Jack” who feels his oats,
Before his eyes a phantom floats;