  THE IRISH CAMELEON.
Marvellous Erin! when St. Patrick's feat Thy hills, vales, plains, and bogs from reptiles freed, He little dream'd what monsters would succeed; Sinners who drink not, saints who never eat! And is there one, in whom the piece of meat Which Paris raves about, no care can breed! One who can never know a time of need, Though corn be trampled by the tempest's feet! Poor fellow! what enjoyment he foregoes! Nothing but air, a scrap of summer cloud, Fog with the chill off, is to him allow'd; A fine thick mist, or rainbow when it shows; But ah! for him no kitchen's steam up-flows; No knives, forks, spoons, or plates, a pilÈd crowd, No dishes, glasses, salts, make music loud! Sad sinecurists all—mouth, ears, and nose! |
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