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126
THE BATCH OF IRISH PEERS;
AN EPIGRAM.
Says Tyro to Classic, who op'd the room door,
I have met with four words, which I ne'er saw before
In my volumes of Roman or Grecian lore:
I've turn'd and I've twisted the subject, my friend,
Yet cannot divine what these symbols portend;
Prithee, tell me, I pray, what these scribblers intend,
By their batches of Irish Peers?
I have met with four words, which I ne'er saw before
In my volumes of Roman or Grecian lore:
I've turn'd and I've twisted the subject, my friend,
Yet cannot divine what these symbols portend;
Prithee, tell me, I pray, what these scribblers intend,
By their batches of Irish Peers?
Those batches, said Classic, are politic prog,
Like the sops that were given to Hell's angry dog:
And which ideots eat while they're chain'd to a log:
Then, hey presto! enrob'd in gay scarlet they're seen,
With a circlet of gold,—as the mob mock their mien,
They are led to a house where they generate spleen;
And all the fine curs—hang their ears.
Like the sops that were given to Hell's angry dog:
And which ideots eat while they're chain'd to a log:
Then, hey presto! enrob'd in gay scarlet they're seen,
With a circlet of gold,—as the mob mock their mien,
They are led to a house where they generate spleen;
And all the fine curs—hang their ears.
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