(If not his own, at least his Prince's), Through toil
and danger walks secure, Looks big and black, and never winces.
No want has he of sword or dagger, Cock'd hat or ringlet of Geramb; Though Peers may laugh and Papists swagger, He does not care a - Whether midst Irish chairmen going, Or through S. Giles's alleys dim, 'Mid drunken Sheelah's, blasting, blowing, No matter—'tis all one to him.
For instance, I, one evening late, Upon a gay vacation sally, Singing the praise of Church and State, Got up, at last, to Cranbourne Alley.
When lo! an Irish Papist darted Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big! I did but frown, and off he started, Scared at me, even without my wig.
Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog Goes not to mass in Dublin City, Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's bog, Nor spouts in Catholic committee.
Oh! place me 'midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles, The royal ragged race of Tara; Or place me where Dick M*rt*n rules The houseless wilds of Connemara; Of Church and State I'll warble still, Though even Dick M*rt'in's self should grumble* Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill, So lovingly upon a hill . . . .
Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble.
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