 | The Poems of Thomas Davis |  |
188
A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS.
I
“Base Bog-trotters,” says the Times,“Brown with mud, and black with crimes,
Turf and lumpers dig betimes
(We grant you need 'em),
But never lift your heads sublime,
Nor talk of Freedom.”
II
Yet, Bog-trotters, sirs, be sure,Are strong to do, and to endure,
Men whose blows are hard to cure—
Brigands! what's in ye,
That the fierce man of the moor
Can't stand again ye?
III
The common drains in Mushra mossAre wider than a castle fosse,
Connaught swamps are hard to cross,
And histories boast
That Allen's Bog has caused the loss
Of many a host.
189
IV
Oh! were you in an Irish bog,Full of pikes, and scarce of prog,
You'd wish your Times-ship was incog.
Or far away,
Though Saxons, thick as London fog,
Around you lay.
| The Poems of Thomas Davis | |