The Petition Of The Orangemen Of Ireland.

A poem by Thomas Moore

To the people of England, the humble Petition
Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing--
That sad, very sad, is our present condition;--
Our jobbing all gone and our noble selves going;--

That forming one seventh, within a few fractions,
Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts,
We hold it the basest of all base transactions
To keep us from murdering the other six parts;--

That as to laws made for the good of the many,
We humbly suggest there is nothing less true;
As all human laws (and our own, more than any)
Are made by and for a particular few:--

That much it delights every true Orange brother
To see you in England such ardor evince,
In discussing which sect most tormented the other,
And burned with most gusto some hundred years since;--

That we love to behold, while old England grows faint,
Messrs. Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows,
To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied Saint,
Ever truly and really pulled the De'il's nose;

Whether t'other Saint, Dominic, burnt the De'il's paw--
Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's odd mother--
And many such points, from which Southey can draw
Conclusions most apt for our hating each other.

That 'tis very well known this devout Irish nation
Has now for some ages, gone happily on
Believing in two kinds of Substantiation,
One party in Trans and the other in Con;[1]

That we, your petitioning Cons, have in right
Of the said monosyllable ravaged the lands
And embezzled the goods and annoyed, day and night,
Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for Trans;--

That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages,
For keeping us still in the same state of mind;
Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages,
When still smaller syllables maddened mankind;--

When the words ex and per[2] served as well to annoy
One's neighbors and friends with, as con and trans now;
And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for oi,
Cut the throats of all Christians who stickled for ou.[3]

That relying on England whose kindness already
So often has helpt us to play this game o'er,
We have got our red coats and our carabines ready,
And wait but the word to show sport as before.

That as to the expense--the few millions or so,
Which for all such diversions John Bull has to pay--
'Tis at least a great comfort to John Bull to know
That to Orangemen's pockets 'twill all find its way.
For which your petitioners ever will pray,
Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.

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