Oh, Marcus D. Boruck, me hearty,
I sympathize wid ye, poor lad!
A man that’s shot out of his party
Is mighty onlucky, bedad!
An’ the sowl o’ that man is sad.
But, Marcus, gossoon, ye desarve it—
Ye know for yerself that ye do,
For ye j’ined not intendin’ to sarve it,
But hopin’ to make it sarve you,
Though the roll of its members wuz two.
The other wuz Pixley, an’ “Surely,”
Ye said, “he’s a kite that wull sail.”
An’ so ye hung till him securely,
Enactin’ the role of a tail.
But there wuzn’t the ghost of a gale!
But the party to-day has behind it
A powerful backin’, I’m told;
For just enough Irish have j’ined it
(An’ I’m m’anin’ to be enrolled)
To kick ye out into the cold.
It’s hard on ye, darlint, I’m thinkin’—
So young—so American, too,
Wid bypassers grinnin’ an’ winkin’,
An’ sayin’, wid ref’rence to you:
“Get onto the murtherin’ Joo!”
Republicans never will take ye—
They had ye for many a year;
An’ Democrats—angels forsake ye!—
If ever ye come about here
We’ll brand ye and scallop yer ear!