With our nags so flash, and our merry men,
We’ll scour the lonely ground.
And if the swells resist our “Stand!”
We’ll squib[72] without a joke;
For I’m snigger’d if we will be trepanned
By the blarneying jaw of a knowing hand,
And thus be lagged[73] to a foreign land,
Or die by an artichoke[74].
But should the traps be on the sly,
For a change we’ll have a crack[75];