Decency's a dirty petticoat in the Garden of Innocence.

Naked we stand, boys! we're not afraid of nature.

You're in the annexe of Erin, Pat, and devil a constable at the keyhole; no rats; I'll say that for the Government, though it's a despotism with an iron bridle on the tongue outside to a foot of the door.

Arctic to freeze the boldest bud of liberty! I'd like a French chanson from ye, Pat, to put us in tune, with a right revolutionary hurling chorus, that pitches Kings' heads into the basket like autumn apples.

Or one of your hymns in Gaelic sung ferociously to sound as horrid to the Saxon, the wretch.