Classic Poem

— A bull who had been an Irishman. —

Is't my story you'd know? — I was Patrick Mulrooney,
A jolman, and Ireland my nation,
To be sure I was not a tight fellow too, honey,
Before my transmogrification.

I did not at all talk of flames and of darts,
To conquer the fair — the dear jewels!
And wid husbands, becase why I won their wives' hearts,
I did not fight plenty of duels.

Then arrah, bodder how you can,
You'll ne'er persuade me, honey,
For I shall-always, bull or man,
Be Patrick Mulrooney.

II.

When at Almack's, or White's, or at Brookes' Boodle's
I've sat up all night in the morning,
'Mongst black legs, and coggers, and pigeons, and noodles,
The calling to use I was born in:

To be sore many honest gold guineas it yields,
But, since 'tis a service of danger,
I'm a better man now I'm a bull in the fields,
To popping and tilting a stranger.