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And labour hugged its chain’ contented,
Wages being also cent-per-cented;
At least, it should have, but th’ unlettered,
Always a thankless sort of sinners,
Now paying doubly for their dinners,
Refused to find their status bettered:
As though the paying more were not
Itself the pleasure to be sought
By civilised and liberal nations,
Not the mere bulk of beer and rations,—
A gross detail of second-rate
Importance m a perfect state.
Howe’er this be, if nerve and muscle
Could hold their heads up in the tussle
And live content with what they got so,
With many a one, alas! ’twas not so.
The feebler, sacked and shewn the door,
Were twice more wretched than before.
Now, of these most unlucky devils
Who sank to subter-social levels,
The bulk were of that gifted race
Which always takes the highest place
As its of right; then, unaccountably,
While drudging Scots and Teutons mount ably,
Display through depths of brawl and drinking
Their mastery in the art of sinking:
In fact,—a fact that really sad is,—
These geniuses were mostly Paddies,
And, to the honour of their nation,
All of the Catholic persuasion.
Thus if, by chance, they got a job, all
Their money went to swell the obol:
