I'm a plain man who speak the truth,
And trust you'll think me not uncivil,
When I declare that from my youth
I've wisht your country at the devil:
Nor can I doubt indeed from all
I've heard of your high patriot fame--
From every word your lips let fall--
That you most truly wish the same.
It plagues one's life out--thirty years
Have I had dinning in my ears,
"Ireland wants this and that and t'other,"
And to this hour one nothing hears
But the same vile, eternal bother.
While, of those countless things she wanted,
Thank God, but little has been granted,
And even that little, if we're men
And Britons, we'll have back again!
I really think that Catholic question
Was what brought on my indigestion;
And still each year, as Popery's curse
Has gathered round us, I've got worse;
Till even my pint of port a day
Can't keep the Pope and bile away.
And whereas, till the Catholic bill,
I never wanted draught or pill,
The settling of that cursed question
Has quite _un_settled my digestion.
Look what has happened since--the Elect
Of all the bores of every sect,
The chosen triers of men's patience,
From all the Three Denominations.
Let loose upon us;--even Quakers
Turned into speechers and lawmakers,
Who'll move no question, stiff-rumpt elves,
Till first the Spirit moves themselves;
And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus,
Conquering our Ayes and Noes sonorous,
Will soon to death's own slumber snore us.
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