And pennons gleam, in the morning beam, from turret and from steeple.
The sound that swells from St. Martin's bells would please O'Connell's ear,
While the Union flag does gaily wag, they're all re-pealers there.
But now the crush becomes a rush, and the Black and Red Guards fright beholders,
Here comes the Lancers, they're the prancers, and the Blues with their broad swords over their shoulders.
And Temple Bar is the seat of war, and rags the ground bestrew,
Here's a Sunday hat, and a boy squeezed flat, a purse and a satin shoe.
Mister soldier! of course you'll make your horse take his foot from off my toe.
I'm on duty, sir, and I dare not stir till I hear the trumpet blow.—
But we've paid our guineas, and we're not such ninnies as to stand in all this riot,—