Classic Poem

I.

" Base Bog-trotters, " says the Times ,
" Brown with mud, and black with crimes,
Turf and lumpers dig betimes
(We grant you need 'em),
But never lift your heads sublime,
Nor talk of Freedom. "

II.

Yet, Bog-trotters, sirs, be sure,
Are strong to do, and to endure,
Men whose blows are hard to cure —
Brigands! what's in ye,
That the fierce man of the moor
Can't stand again ye?

III.

The common drains in Mushra moss
Are wider than a castle fosse,
Connaught swamps are hard to cross,
And histories boast
That Allen's Bog has caused the loss
Of many a host.

IV.

Oh! were you in an Irish bog,
Full of pikes, and scarce of prog,
You'd wish your Times -ship was incog.
Or far away,
Though Saxons, thick as London fog,
Around you lay.