Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns,
Averts her blushing face;
Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns
To meet his warm embrace:
Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be,
Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me.
The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King.
This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing;
But there's a deep-laid policy in it;
For, did the Chancellor not that conscience keep,
It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit;
Seated on wool, it may securely sleep.
* * * * *
Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree.
'Pat!' cries an Englishman ''tis clear to me,
More grateful for the union you should be;
Think what an honour is to Ireland done:
Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!'
"Murther!" cries Pat "he wedded her by force,
And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce."