POETRY WARS, 1822.

[Currie]

POETRY WARS, 1822.


From The Morning Post (London), Friday, August 16, 1822;

THE SONS OF THE SHAMROCK.
A new song on His Majesty's visit to Scotland.

Let the King go to Scotland, my Jewel, said Pat,
He's in luck, if he finds such a welcome as that
He received from the sons of the Shamrock.
By my soul I'm mistaken, or, 'twixt me and you,
Master Sawney will find he's got something to do,
If he rivals the sons of the Shamrock.

He must brush up his bonnet, and stir well his stumps.
For the fam'd Land of Cakes will be put to her trumps,
When she vies with the sons of the Shamrock,
All her Lads and her Lassies, though brave and as bonnie
As ever cut caper to bag-pipe, my Honey!
Must yield to the race of the Shamrock.

Let her Clans and her Chieftains come down from their Highlands,
Though they talk of their whiskey, what are they but dry lands,
Compared to the soil of the Shamrock!
In a glass of Potheen when old Erin he toasted,
It so cheered his heart, that, God bless him! he boasted,
'Twas Irish, and true to the Shamrock.

With their broadswords and bucklers and bowmen, what noise!
The Shilelah's the true guard of honour, my boys!
For a King 'mongst the sons of the Shamrock.
Faith! he thought so himself, for he packed off his bands,
And exulting to find himself safe in our hands,
Cried "Hurrah! for the sons of the Shamrock."

Let them fit up in state their old Holyrood Halls,
Let them level their streets, and knock down their old walls,
What is that to the sons of the Shamrock?
Not a rut in his road did he find in our parts,
George at once saw his way, clean and clear to our hearts,
When he came 'mongst the sons of the Shamrock.

Tho' they've Bards of great fame, Scotts and Campbells a score,
I can harp it myself, though not quite like Tom Moore,
In defence of the sons of the Shamrock;
We've been silent indeed, for what reason to sing,
Had poor Erin in praise of a Court or a King,
Until George touched the shores of the Shamrock?

Place the bonnet of Bruce on his head, and 'tis odd,
Tho' they plume it with thistles quite fresh from their sod,
If he does not prefer the green Shamrock.
For he always had taste and can any one blame him!
Because he has shewn he knew best what became him,
And so decked his brows with the Shamrock.

There it blooms to all eyes,—the cockade of his crown,
Let us see, my brave boys, who shall dare take it down,
In the face of the Sons of the Shamrock?
While 'tis there and unfaded, his foes may go whistle,
And in vain shall the lads of the Rose and the Thistle,
Hope to rival the Sons of the Shamrock.

Tho' they strut in their tartans and kilts as they call 'em,
The're only short Petticoats,— breeches would gall 'em,
They're not like the Sons of the Shamrock!
But they look for all that, like tight fellows, and those
Who have tried them all swear, they give very hard blows,
Although not like the sons of the Shamrock.

But if they're so brisk at a feast or a fray,
And to honour a guest always jovial and gay,
'Tis because they've a smack of the Shamrock!
Sure 'tis very well known that we peopled their lands,
St. Patrick took that little job on his hands,
Long ago with some lads of the Shamrock.

But we now are all one, though the union divides us,
Yet we'll stick to the bargain, for honour still guides us,
If justice be done to the Shamrock;
By my soul, if he's wise, George had better come over
To his own little Island, and there live in clover,
For Kings are still safe with the Shamrock.

No complaint will he hear from the rich or the poor,
Not a grivance they have will they lay at his door,
If his heart be but true to the Shamrock;
And tho' Ireland, God knows, has some wrongs to her share,
He'll find that no serpent to sting him is there,
Or can shelter beneath the green Shamrock.

----------------------------

From The Morning Post (London), Thursday, September 19, 1822.

"THE LAND OF THE THISTLE,"
In answer to the “Lads of the Shamrock.”
"Nemo me impuna lacessit."
"Wha dare meddle wi' me?"

Aye, the King came to Scotland, the land of the free,
And full certain I am that delighted was he,
When he saw his own Tartan and Thistle.

And though true that we did not make quite such a rout,
Or as did our friend Pat, pull him so much about
In the land of the Tartan and Thistle.

Yet the welcome be got from our true hearts and steady,
He would like quite as well as that of our good Paddy,
Who pretends to despise our own Thistle.

No car-men were here with their chain-harness to rattle,
And before him to ride on their own high-bred cattle,
To his home in the land of the Thistle.

Nor e'er dar'd ragged boys on his carriage to sit,
And to plague him with impudence, which they call wit,
But he met with respect from the Thistle.

His arm was not pull'd off by dirty coal-heavers,
But "a Nation of Gentlemen" were his receivers,
Where bloom the free Heather and Thistle.

We prov'd ourselves worthy the name which he gave us,
By showing we always know how to behave us,
We, the Sons of the unrivall'd Thistle.

Not like Paddy, unwilling e'en there to give quarter,
Did we follow him up to our necks in the water,
When be quitted the then mournful Thistle.

But since, my dear fellows, you're talking of taste,
He'd prefer to your welcome, on that score at least,
That he got in the land of the Thistle.

Ah! I know what by nature you're fondest of, boys!
'Tis crack'd heads, and whisky, botheration and noise!
'Tis not thus in the land of the Thistle.

Whilst we felt all his greatness, admir'd each look,
Pat gaz'd only to see how much whisky he took,
Not so did the sons of the Thistle.

Each Scotsman then thought that his King’s princely air,
Might well wield the sceptre, the crown might well wear,
Of the old, and the glorious Thistle.

We hail'd him with ardour, though preserv'd our respect,
And show'd that with life-blood we'd his safety protect,
The lov'd King of the land of the Thistle.

And then of our eagle-plum'd bonnets (dear fellows!)
Our kilts and our tartans, you well may be jealous,
The fair pride of the land of the Thistle;

Sure no Clans-men are yours or great Chieftains, or those
That for ages have guarded their Monarch with bows,
Nought noble and old as the Thistle.

And now pray, brother Paddy, don't think me unkind,
Because I've just told you a small piece of my mind,
In defence of the land of the Thistle.

Own brother's we've long been, for you know very well,
That St. Andrew long since peopled Erin himsel,
With some Lads from the land of the Thistle.

Ah! a true Irishman I've e'er lov'd to my heart,
Nor against him now should I have taken this part,
But each Scot should defend his own Thistle.

For though perhaps he may not be e'er steady and wise,
Yet to match him in each noble point he defies,
The whole world, but the land of the Thistle.

And ah! have we not ever in war and in peace,
Been true brothers together?—Then let Erin cease,
Thus t’oblige us to guard our own Thistle.

And Heav'n grant, that more contest there never may be
Than this proud one of showing their own loyalty,
'Tween the Sons of the Shamrock and Thistle.

ROBERT THE BRUCE


Alan