13
In state palaver, scalpless Doctor’s join,
Prone to prescribe their quack “Great Medicine
Of brandy pawnee tribe these warriors bold
To bleed, shave, chatter as their craft of old—
Oh! shade of Grattan can thy wraith now see
The tricks of namesakes in posterity?
A Douglass to the rescue—echo calls,
Oh “walls have ears”—not so the Council halls—
Your idol, vulgar Goneworth, squints not there
Greek fire falls feebly on the classic chair,
Your finger in the pie on every side
Unless its served at feast of Barmicide,
Euphonious language loves Hibernian lung
And blandest blarney proves Milesian tongue
Bounce and bombast will elbow in a place,
Or you’re not scion of your father’s race—
A pile, you pocket from Macquarie’s grant
That Bill of Billy’s realized the plant—
The bone digested, loud the lurchers bark,
And town uncanny, springs up Douglas Park
As Santa Fé before Boabdil’s walle,
So rise the outlines of ancestral Halls,
Sure Paddy’s beat beneath Australian sky
Trace the patrician from posperity.—
What ass is this? Assassin’s near the mark
That aims his venom’d arrow in the dark?
| Cadaverous beat of palish lurid hue Arch your sire Deacon,—arch indeed are you Needs give to Parson, as to Deil, his due— |
(The Cape of Hope relates an oft told tale
The Table mount still breathes the warriors wail—
No Menelaus there avenge her charms
And Holy men discard recourse to arms,
A second flame shall fulminate from Jove,
And vet’ran gunner lights the match of love,
Strange is the story, strange indeed if true,
May “Caller herrin” be rehearsed anew)—
You’d drag a railway over pet Church-hill,
