The spirits of your fathers Should watch you from the wave!-- The brine, it was their field of fame; On turf you're just as brave. As VAN TROMP'S and DE RUYTER'S did Your manly breasts must glow As you smite left and right, While the balls for "boundaries" go; Whilst the batsmen run 'em fast and long, And the balls for "boundaries" go!
BRITANNIA loves to encounter Her ancient foes--in peace. Our march is to the wickets green, Our home is at the crease. With volleys from her native wood She meets the friendly foe, As they smite left and right, And the balls for "boundaries" go; While the batsmen run 'em fast and long, And the balls for "boundaries" go!
The willows of old England, Dutch willows shall not spurn! Your team we'll cheer when they depart, We'll welcome their return! Then, then ye willow-warriors, Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When to Holland back ye go; When the shout "How's that?" is heard no more, And to Dutchland back ye go!
["The House of Lords, for some reason, always assumes special care of Ireland, a fact which may account for a few of the curiosities of Irish political and domestic economy."--_Mr. Punch's Essence of Parliament, June 3, 1861._]
Wilful Markee, it's loike thunder ye frown, _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Faith ye'd plase yer proud Parthy by kicking _me_ down, _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ How haughty your air, As you kick me down-stair! Faix, I wondher ye dare In this oisle of the free! Och, ye autocrat churl, Me poor head's in a whirl. _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
Wilful Markee, Oireland's chance is now come, _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Whin everything smoiles must the Tories look glum? _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Sure the Commons, wid prayers, Have sint me upstairs; Who is it that dares Wid me form disagree? _Don't_ haughtily pish At ould Oireland's last wish! _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
Wilful Markee, whin a Bill enters in. _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ To be kicking it out in this stoyle is a sin. _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Surely hammer and tongs To bad ould days belongs; Far betther sing songs Full of family glee. Oireland's bad bitter cup Do not harshly fill up, _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
And do ye not know wid yer bearing so bould,-- _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ How ye're kaping the poor tinants out in the could? _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Wid such sins on your head, Sure your peace will be fled; Could you slape in your bed Widout thinking to see My ghost or my sprite That will wake ye each night Groaning _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_