75
Brief, every papist heart is full,
Like Phalaris roaring in his bull.
But unappalled and undismayed
The bold Sir Blasius rose, arrayed
In majesty, and two small bands
That flapped below his stubbly chin
Like Capricorn’s two dewlaps thin,
And from the window his tirade
Roared forth, the Bible in his hands,
And orbs to ill-tiled roofs upraised,
And lips that burned and nose that blazed.
So moribund aquatic fowl
Raise piteous eyes from reed-bound lands
While levin smites and thunders growl,
And mangy sheep crowd cheek by jowl.
I’m well aware that here should follow
That saintly Calvinist’s phillipic,
But recollect when papists holloa
Their logic method’s mostly hippic,
And what finds favor in the stable
Or ring, they bawl while they are able;
When lungs, as heads, are empty, whacks
Administer, or turn their backs.
On this occasion all the quarter
Was seething and bubbling like a water-
Spout, mud yolcano or tornado,
Just as it doubles up the dado
And irons out the cat and kittens
As flat as granny’s new silk mittens
The most intrepidest reporter
Had soon been doubled up as fans are
When hurricanes rage o’er Arkansa;
