Here we are, Mr. Bull, your Orange and Green,
Flaunting away like two show flowers,
Or rival Sultanas, that it may be seen
Which first you will choose for your amorous hours;
Though, like a great Sultan, you won't condescend
At either your fancy cravat to throw--
But, please make a choice, for 'tis time you should end
Our rivalry, ere to ``the scratch'' we go!
Come! tell us your mind! old Orange or me?
Her jaundiced phiz, or my bloomy charms?
A hen--pecking, peevish old maid of sixty,
Or beauty, and vigor, and youth, in your arms?
If a peaceable house you wish yours to be,
You'll hardly, I think, bring home such a bride;
If you hope, under God, a fine family,
A man of your sense must soon decide.
And know you her dower, and know you mine?
An old woman bevy, a thin male crew,
As hungry and poor as Pharaoh's lean kine,
Of her own sickly colour, she brings to you--
I offer a portion few princesses have!
A kingdom! a kingdom! of teeming plains!
A people! a people! fresh, loyal, and brave!
A nation, a nation! with blood in its veins!