As Plutus, not Patrick, old Ireland’s rich God is,
Drink champaign and venison, with rasberry jam.
III.
You chairmen from Ireland, big blackguards call’d ponies,
Case you up and down, fan away tabbies in chairs,
You’ll soon be all jontlemen and macaronies,
If your prize in Peru only comes up in shares.
I think I now see you all swell, strut, and swagger,
With big lumps of nature’s coin’d gold in your hand,
When by whiskey tight-laced up St. James’s you stagger,