The Fine Young Irish Gentleman

I'LL sing you a rare new song, of a youth with a shallow pate,
Of a fine young Irish gentleman whose Paper's his estate,
And who writes and chatters treason at a most enormous rate,
From love of notoriety, sensation to create,
    Like a fine young Irish gentleman-- one of the present time.

His talk, so empty otherwise, is full of pikes and guns;
With yells for blood and massacre the people's ear he stuns;
He preaches war-- but danger since the brawler always shuns,
If ever matters come to blows, depend on it he runs,
    Like a fine young Irish gentleman-- one of the present time.

When Famine's hand oppress'd his land, we freely gave our store--
Although ourselves in grievous want-- to save the starving poor;
We oped our hearts towards them-- in return, with brutal roar,
Those hearts his fellow-countrymen he calls upon to gore,
    Like a fine young Irish gentleman-- one of the present time.

And thus his curship howling in Confederation Hall,
Kept on defying constantly the arm of Law to fall,
Enraged that Government would take no note of him at all,
Because, though great the wickedness, the consequence was small,
    Of this fine young Irish gentleman-- one of the present time.

At length, as when a puppy will in yelping persevere,
Since, though we reck not of his bite, his bark annoys our ear,
And so we kick him: thus the Crown resolved to interfere,
And for sedition to indict this puny mutineer,
    Oh! this fine young Irish gentleman-- one of the present time.

The Law, though late, asserts itself, no more to be defied:
This fine young Irish gentleman and friends are to be tried;
And, would some wholesome statute there existed to provide
A treadmill for the exercise, and a trimming for the hide
    Of this fine young Irish gentleman-- one of the present time.