Hope not, I'm sure, for I'm sick of stye-voices
ARTHUR of those, has no doubt, borne the brunt;
Now in a semi-relief he rejoices
Pigs are fit only for styes and nose-ringing.
Never let Irish ones run loose and root,
Rather wish ARTHUR were less sweet on flinging
Pearls before pigs; as well feed 'em on fruit.
_Hrumph_! There. I thought so! _Hrumph_! _hrumph_! What a pest!
Sure that big brute has his eye on my ladder.
Has ARTHUR loosed him? He thinks he knows best,
But a nasty spill _now_!--nothing well could be sadder
Brutes always rub their broad backs and stiff bristles
Against--anything that comes handy. Oh lor!
How the brute shoulders, and snorts, grunts and whistles!
Off to the gutter, you big Irish boar!
Not he! He nears me! It _is_ ARTHUR's pet.
Light ladder this; would capsize in a jiffy.
His bristles he'd scrape and his tusks he would whet
Against it, I wish he were drowned in the Liffey!
_Whisht_! Get away! He's so heavy and big.
There! round the ladder he's playing the fooler.
Ah! there's the rub. PATRICK scumfish that Pig!
If he doesn't mean deviltry I'm a--Home Ruler!
[_Left fidgetting._
* * * * *
UNASKED.
Unasked, the Tax-Collector wild
Presents to smirking MARY his
Demand--on what the Roman styled
"_Kalendis Januariis_.
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