The Irishman is never quite

      Contented with his little lot;

      He's ever thirsting for a fight,

      A grievance he has always got;

      And all his energy is bent

      On trying not to pay his rent.

      He lives upon a frugal fare

      (The few potatoes that he digs),

      And hospitably loves to share

      His bedroom with his wife and pigs;

      But cannot settle even here,

      And gets evicted once a year.

      In order to amuse himself,

      At any time when things are slack,

      He takes his gun down from the shelf

      And shoots a landlord in the back;

      If he is lucky in the chase,

      He may contrive to bag a brace.

      Procure a grievance and a gun

      And you can have no end of fun.

      The natives of the land of Wales

      Are not a very truthful lot,

      And the imagination fails

      To paint the language they have got;

      Bettws-y-coed-llan-dud-nod-

      Dolgelly-rhiwlas-cwn-wm-dod!

      If you must talk, then do it, pray,

      In an intelligible way.

      The Chinaman from early youth

      Is by his wise preceptors taught

      To have no dealings with the Truth,

      In fact, romancing is his 'forte.'

      In juggling words he takes the prize,

      By the sheer beauty of his lies.

      For laundrywork he has a knack;

      He takes in shirts and makes them blue;

      When he omits to send them back

      He takes his customers in too.

      He must be ranked in the 'élite'

      Of those whose hobby is deceit.

      For ladies 'tis the fashion here

      To pinch their feet and make them small,

      Which, to the civilised idea,

      Is not a proper thing at all.

      Our modern Western woman's taste

      In pinching leans towards the waist.

      The Chinese Empire is the field

      Where foreign missionaries go;

      A poor result their labours yield,

      And they have little fruit to show;

      For, if you would convert Wun Lung,

      You have to catch him very young.

      The Chinaman has got a creed

      And a religion of his own,

      And would be much obliged indeed

      If you could leave his soul alone;

      And he prefers, which may seem odd,

      His own to other people's god.

      Yet still the missionary tries

      To point him out his wickedness,

      Until the badgered natives rise, —

      And there's one missionary less!

      Then foreign Pow'rs step in, you see,

      And ask for an indemnity.

      Adhere to facts, avoid romance,

      And you a clergyman may be;

      To lie is wrong, except perchance

      In matters of Diplomacy.

      And, when you start out to convert,

      Make certain that you don't get hurt!

      The natives here remark 'Mon Dieu!'

      'Que voulez-vous?' 'Comment ça va?'

      'Sapristi! Par exemple! Un peu!'

      'Tiens donc! Mais qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?'

      They shave one portion of their dogs,

      And live exclusively on frogs.

      They get excited very quick,

      And crowds will gather before long

      If you should stand and wave your stick

      And shout, 'À bas le Presidong!'

      Still more amusing would it be

      To say, 'Conspuez la Patrie!'

      The French are so polite, you know,

      They take their hats off very well,

      And, should they tread upon your toe,

      Remark, 'Pardon, Mademoiselle!'

      And you would gladly bear the pain

      To see them make that bow again.

      Their ladies too have got a way

      Which even curates can't resist;

      'Twould make an Alderman feel gay

      Or soothe a yellow journalist;

      And then the things they say are so

      Extremely – well, in fact, – you know!

      The closest scrutiny can find

      No morals here of any kind.

      The German is a stolid soul,

      And finds best suited to his taste

      A pipe with an enormous bowl,

      A fraulein with an ample waist;

      He loves his beer, his Kaiser, and

      (Donner und blitz!) his Fatherland!

      He's perfectly contented if

      He listens in the Op'ra-house

      To Wagner's well-concealed 'motif,'

      Or waltzes of the nimble Strauss;

      And all discordant bands he sends

      Abroad, to soothe his foreign friends.

      When he is glad at anything

      He cheers like a dyspeptic goat,

      'Hoch! hoch!' You'd think him suffering

      From some affection of the throat.

      A disagreeable noise, 'tis true,

      But pleases him and don't hurt you!

      A