Now, from Hibernia's fertile shore
The thund'ring champion comes,
His country's wrongs for to deplore,
With trumpets, fife, and drums;
He tells them, too, he is most true,
Their firm, unshaken friend,
While life Shall last, he will stand fast,
And all their rights defend.
Then champions of another grade—
I mean, of fistic lore—
Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade,
Struts o'er the spacious floor,
Who, with great art, performs his part,
In teaching self-defence;
Yet plain I saw, he meant to draw
Fools' shillings, pounds, and pence.
Next comes a man of fangles new—
Of worlds, and moons, and stars—
Who said, Sir Isaac never knew
The Ple-i-ades from Mars
The folks throng'd round from all the town,
And some pronounc'd him clever,
Yet, I've been told, both young and old
Return'd as wise as ever.
Apollo, too, his court here keeps,
With sirens in his train—
Each trembling note of music sweeps
Transport through every vein:
When Orpheus play'd within the shade,
He made the woods resound;
The list'ning beasts forsook the mead,
And stood, like statues, round.
A graver scene my muse has caught,
Where sages, in a row—
Men, by the Holy Spirit taught
The gospel truths t' avow—
Those who have trod, to serve their God,
The shores of foreign land,
At his command, now boldly stand
T' implore a helping hand.
And not unfrequent, as we stray
This wond'rous place to see,
We find it fill'd with ladies gay,
To take a cup of tea;
And many a gent, who is content
With such domestic fare,
Has often sat, in social chat,
And join'd in many a prayer.
Of many more there is one class,
Which merits some attention—
Not Bacchanalians, alas!
For such I would not mention—
But men of brains, the smell of grains
Would strike with detestation,
Who'd keep us dry, and thus decry
All liquors in the nation.
Nay, come what will of good or ill,
Just only make a trial—
If you the owner's pockets fill,
You'll meet with no denial;
And men, I hear, from far and near,
Have given attestation,
So strong a place they cannot trace
In any other nation.