It seems to me their Aigle for full Freedom no more pants,
And the Senator, he mutthers ov "degraded immigrants."
Says they can't "assimilate" us; faix, the wurrud sounds monstrous foine,
But Oi fancy that it's maning is, "We mane to draw the loine!"
Shure, we're "ignorant and debased," dear; and the poor won't now find friends
Even in free Columbia! So 'tis thus the ould boast ends!
"Stop 'em—for a year," says Chandler; "we'll be holding our Big Show,
An' poverty, an'—well, Cholera, are not wanted thin, you know."
It's an artful move, my Mary, but, it stroikes me, a bit thin,
And it won't come home consolin', to "the poor ov Adam's kin."