Thus spoke a sturdy Northern lad. A Munster boy was nigh,
And heard the words which, he conceived, an insult did imply.
"I hate, I loathe your gaudy flow'r," disdainfully he cried;
"It shall not grow, its tints to show, wherever I abide.
Your lily shall be trampled if it ever meets my sight."
The blood of both was thus aroused and eager for a fight;
An aged man reproved them, bade their bitter taunts to cease,
And then suggested that his taste each might indulge in peace.
"My friend, I'll plant your lily, let its color glad your eyes,
No hateful green shall intervene to rival its rich dyes.