Page:Merryman songster.pdf/18

19 When my soldier was gone, d'ye think I'd take on, Sit moping forlorn? No, no, not Iǃ His fame my concern, how my bosom would burn When I saw him return crown'd with victory If an army of Amazons e're came in play, As a dashing white sergeant I'd march away.

PATS APOLOGY FOR BULLS.

WHAT man from mistake or frow blunders is free, From the monarch enthroned to poor Pat of Tralee? Some blunder in Judgement, in action and wrong, But Pat greatest blunders a slip of the tongue, Whack, whack, whack, whack, botheration, Oh, whack

Don't the great men of state often blunder about, And when some blunder in sure the rest blunder out Though places they want not yet that's all a bother, For don't they say one thing and mean quit another. Whack, &c.

Our minister, too, I've a mighty strong notion. Has blundered a bit in his Union motion; For some folk will tell you the question is, whether He has not divided by joining together. Whack, &c.

They say that a bull is she plant of our nation, But jesting on that core is quite out of fashion; For long has been proved that poor Pat's not to blame, When a Scot born in Cork, faith, would just do the same. Whack, &c.

To drink a choice bottle is honest Pat's plan, But John Bull expected to bottle the man; A time for reflection we march to feather, For England nation of Bulls altogether. Whack, &c.

All ranks and profesionall blundur alike. The doctor when wrong, but the lawyer it right, Yet blunder or not, you may safely rely on's He loses no fee till be ruined his cheat. Whack, &c.