  No. III. March, 1837. I. March, March! why the de'il don't you march Faster than other months out of your order? You're a horrible beast, with the wind from the East, And high-hopping hail and slight sleet on your border: Now, our umbrellas spread, flutter above our head, And will not stand to our arms in good order; While, flapping and tearing, they set a man swearing Round the corner, where blasts blow away half the border! II. March, March! I am ready to faint That St. Patrick had not his nativity's casting; I am sure, if he had, such a peaceable lad Would have never been born amid blowing and blasting: But as it was his fate, Irishmen emulate Doing what Doom, or St. Paddy may order; And if they're forced to fight through their wrongs for their right, They'll stick to their flag while a thread's in its border. III. March, March! have you no feeling, E'en for the fair sex who make us knock under? You cold-blooded divil, you're far more uncivil Than Summer himself, with his terrible thunder! Every day we meet ladies down Regent-street, Holding their handkerchiefs up in good order; But, do all that we can, the most merciful man Must see the blue noses peep over the border. S. Lover. |
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