The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant;
The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,[1]
And now if King William would make them a present
To t'other chaste lady--ye Saints, just imagine it!
Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief,
Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches;
While colonels in black would afford some relief
From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench's.
Think how fierce at a _charge_ (being practised therein)
The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on!
How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin,
To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on!
For in one point alone do the amply fed race
Of bishops to beggars similitude bear--
That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase,
And they'll ride, if not pulled up in time--you know where.
But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much,
Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way;
And a good stanch Conservative's system is such
That he'd back even Beelzebub's long-founded sway.
I am therefore, dear _Quarterly_, quite of your mind;--
Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour:
And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind.
The more let's repeat it--"Black dose, as before.
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