And the benches of the Commons, where they love a fight, grew full;
And, although they knew 'twas better not to hurry people's cattle,
They implored their fiery Colonel to oblige them with a bull.
But the Colonel needs no prompting, straight rises to address them,
And his eye now flames in fury, and now twinkles like a star;
And he turned on Mr. PARNELL'S men, and didn't rightly bless them,
This flashing, dashing, slashing _militaire_ from North Armagh.
And before a man could whistle there were ructions and denials,
Shouts and countershouts of anger--quite a House of Commons scene;
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.
Pages:
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51