46. “Bully,” “Crapeau,” and the “bear.”
by Naynha.
Mr. Bull, with a face like a brick,One evening, just after his dinner,
Says, now my poor cousin is sick,
“Hi'll maul ‘im has Hi ham a sinner.
His vessels ‘ave plenty to do,
His soldiers ‘ave more, and can't do it;
I'll pop in a thousand or two,
By Jingo! hi'll soon put ‘im through it.”
Singing: Give it him, Bull, tra la,
Take care of your chances and work ‘em,
If your “dear friends” are ailing, tra la,
Don't lose any time till you bark ‘em.
But Patrick was sitting close by,
His face it flushed up like a daisy--
“Arrah! what did the ould rascal say?
Be jabers, ‘Old Bully ’ is crazy.
Shure, here is myself dhat wud crack
His ugly ould pate in a minute;”
And he made a grimace at his back
Saying, “I hope that ye'll put yer fut in it.”
Singing: Give it him, Bull, tra la,
Take care of your chances and work ‘em,
If your “dear friends” are ailing, tra la,
Don't lose any time till yees burk ‘em.
But John never minded bould Pat,
(He was too busy counting his money,)
Says he, I won't lend him a rap!
He don't need un, cries Patrick, my honey;
He's got plenty of money at home,
‘Mongst the Jarmans and ould residenters.
We'll sind, if we need it, to Rome,
Or the Presbytayrian Dissenters.
Your grandson is ailing, but la!
You're not the ould fellow to burk him,
Stay at home, you're fast failina, ‘ould da,’
You've not the material to work ‘em.
But here, John, is Mr. Crapeau,
Look how he comes, smirking and bowing in,
“Gude mornina, sare, how du day do?”
“Purty well, ye ould chap, are yees going in?”
Ye're two purty villyans well met;
But Jonathan will not be caught by yees;
I'll lay a respictable bet
Uncle Sam don't require to be taught by yees.
Singing: Trust him not, Bull, tra la,
The Divil's benathe that swate face of his;
He's making yees dance, tra la,
While he whistles his exquisite symphonies.
Arrah! look at ould John wid his arm
Roun‘ the nick of that frog-ayting popinjay,
Begorra, he'll bring him to harm
If he trusts his Impayryal Majesty;
Arrah! John, but ye're innocent, man!
Don't ye see what the little thafe's dhrivina at?
Why, ye tun-bellied, fat omadhaun,
Ye don't drame, now, of what he's connivina at.
Singing: Look out for your purse-strings, John,
For Louis is up to a thing or two,
He'll clip your aspiring wings, John,
Some morning, before yees know what to do.
But, suddenly, came a fierce growl
And a rustle beneath the old table
Where Louis and John, cheek by jowl,
Sat plotting fast as they were able.
'Twas the bear from the North had broke loose,
Having heard of their wicked designings,
Says he, Boys, don't crow now so crouse,
I'll spoil all your secret combinings.
Oh! Ill have a hand in the pie,
For Jonathan is an old friend of mine
You are flying a little too high,
On his bones you never need hope to dine.
With a “sacre,” “mon Dieu,” and a fling,
The Frenchman leaped back with affright,
While John's face, like a “shoat” in spring,
From crimson became a bad white.
“Pardonnez moi,” Crapeau did cry;
“Oh, the devil!” cries John in a huff; [32]
While the Russian looked on mighty sly,
“Hooch!” says Pat, “my boys, you'll get enough.”
Singing: It's better be honest and true,
And spake out, like men, what you mane;
“Ould dad,” you are not “the true blue,”
A fig for France, England, and Spain.
