SONG OF THE FENIAN SCRIBE.
A writer I am, of the Fenian Press;
In an Irish Republic belief I profess;
With my rant of High Treason, and readers so green,
With pride 'tis I practice my lucrative art
For bread, boys; for beef, for champagne, boys, and clar't.
The serf with his praties contented may be:
But the fat of the land will alone do for me,
Defiance to England I, dauntless, proclaim;
Rebellion with no great desire to inflame,
My customers may, or mayn't choose to rebel'
My object is purely my paper to sell.
The divil may care, if I can but do that,
What effect I produce on excitable Pat,
Who fears to write fustian so long as it pays ?
I won't barrin' for murder, get hanged in these days,
In the Pillory's time ears were cropped, noses slit:
That's all over, thinks I, at my desk when I sit.
There's no more any chance of the cart's tail and cat,
Therefore no reason why I should mind what I'm at.
My career I defy the base Saxon to check,
Though into a noose I'll get Paddy's nate neck.
Old Johnson said what a poor blackguard might string;
But I laugh in my purse whilst my profits I ring:
That "Patriotism" for professional line,
"Is a scoundrel's last refuge." Bedad it is mine !
Nov. 26, 1869.
We wanted something pleasant,
Never times like those at present---
Fogs, Fenians, Spain in muddle, Napoleon in a mess:
Let us smile at least a minute,
Take a glass, with something in it,
And cry "Bless the Nation's Darling and her little new Princess."