While the Colonel, who had bottled all his wrath, poured out the vials
On the heads of Irish gentlemen whose wigs were on the green.
'Twas in vain they sought to daunt him; like a flock of noisy sparrows
When a hawk comes grimly swooping, or like moths that tempt the wick,
So they scattered when the Colonel told the House of shameful arrows,
Which were fired (I quote the Colonel) in the hope that mud might stick.
When Sir BOYLE, the ever famous, smelt a rat (you've heard the story)—
Saw it floating in the air, he promptly nipped it in the bud;
But I think our modern Colonel gets the greater share of glory
For inventing shameful arrows that could only spatter mud.