PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Oi'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, an' lookin' o'er the tide,

An' by jabers Oi'm afraid, Aroon, that there Oi'll have to bide!

The grass is springin' fresh an' green in Ould Oireland, but oh moy!

If there's any green in Jonathan's land, it is not in his oi!

The States are awful changed, Mary; it is not now as then,

When they lifted a free latch-string to all exiled Oirishmen.

Now we miss the whoop ov welcome; they suggest it's loike our cheek,

And Oi'm listenin' for brave Lowell's words—which Chandler does not speak!

It seems to me their Aigle for full Freedom no more pants,

And the Senator, he mutthers ov "degraded immigrants."

Says they can't "assimilate" us; faix, the wurrud sounds monstrous foine,

But Oi fancy that it's maning is, "We mane to draw the loine!"

Shure, we're "ignorant and debased," dear; and the poor won't now find friends

Even in free Columbia! So 'tis thus the ould boast ends!

"Stop 'em—for a year," says Chandler; "we'll be holding our Big Show,

An' poverty, an'—well, Cholera, are not wanted thin, you know."

It's an artful move, my Mary, but, it stroikes me, a bit thin,

And it won't come home consolin', to "the poor ov Adam's kin."

Faix! they won't stop 'cabin passengers,' big-wigs, an' British Peerage,

But—they don't want the poor devils that crowd over in the steerage!

So Oi'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, and there Oi'll loikely sthop,

For they don't require poor Paddy in their big new Chandler's Shop.

Uncle Sam's some punkins, Mary, but he's not a great green goose;

An' he's goin' to sthop a braggin' ov that latch-string always loose!