PR4728.G25B5 U 1893 Si,yLlbrary 
 The Blarney ballads, 
 
 3 1924 013 459 627 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013459627 
 
Frontispiece.'] [ Vide p. 77. 
 
 " I allamost started screamin', ma'am, 
 To find that Misther Balfour, that blood-stained English demon, ma'am, 
 Had taken Billy's clothes away and left him in goal to die." 
 
THE 
 
 BLARNEY BALLADS 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES L? GRAVES 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. R. HALKETT 
 
 FOURTH EDITION 
 
 H o n & o n 
 
 SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO 
 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1893 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 P N no more striking manner 
 is the jealousy of the 
 English manifested than 
 by their reluctance to re- 
 cognise the merits of Irish 
 minstrelsy. In virtue 
 doubtless of his long re- 
 sidence on English soil, 
 Tom Moore has been 
 admitted to the British 
 lyrical Pantheon ; but the 
 claims of most of his compatriots have been steadily ignored. 
 How many Saxon readers have heard of Buggy, the bard 
 who so scathingly denounced The Saxon Shilling in verses of 
 which The Irish Tanner is but a faint echo ? Harkan, too, 
 the author of The Anti-Irish Irishman; McGee, who sang 
 of The Irish Wife; and McCann, who in inspiring strains 
 bade his fellow Irishmen "strike for their country — 
 O'Donnell Aboo," — how lamentably few are their admirers 
 on this side of the water ! 
 
 The present volume has grown out of the desire to combat 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 and correct this ignorance. Just as De Nerval rendered 
 Goethe familiar in France by his paraphrases of Faust, so it 
 is to be hoped that through these ballads England may be 
 led to render tardy justice to the masterpieces from which 
 they have been humbly imitated. If the renderings appear 
 at times to be somewhat free, perhaps they will prove all 
 the easier reading on that account. 
 
 Nearly all departments of Irish poetry are here represented, 
 from the Bardic Ode to the Broadsheet. The Arabian 
 Knight closely follows the metre of Mangan's Dark Rosaleen, 
 in its turn a translation of a poem by an Irish bard of the 
 Elizabethan era. Specimens of Convivial and Humorous 
 Songs will be found in The Promise-breaches, based upon, 
 and in some parts borrowed from, Purty Molly Brallaghan ; 
 in Cave ! to the Classes, and in modernized versions of The 
 Groves of Blarney, The Rakes of Mallow, and The Monks of 
 the Screw. The street ballad is represented by The Grand 
 Ould Man, The Wearing of the Blue, and Willy, I Hardly 
 Knew You; while a chord of tenderer sentiment is struck in 
 such pieces as Billy Machrcc, — adapted from Gerald Griffin's 
 Gille Machree, — The Munster Maid, A Leap-Year Match, 
 and Waiting for the Tide ; the last mentioned being closely 
 modelled on D. F. McCarthy's Waiting for the May. The 
 originals of other pieces will be familiar to readers of Moore 
 and Sheridan. Purists may resent such procedure as sacri- 
 legious in the extreme ; but if it prompts them to consult 
 the Celtic exemplars, the end will have justified the some- 
 what questionable means adopted. Some few of these 
 ballads may lay claim to originality in form and sentiment ; 
 
PREFACE. v 
 
 but even here free recourse has been made to the Irish 
 Nationalist Press in general, and United Ireland in particular, 
 for metaphors, epithets, and expletives. To guard against 
 any possible charge of plagiarism, it may be as well to state 
 that the adjectives in The Balpha-bet are nine times out of 
 ten borrowed from the source indicated above. The term 
 " Tory Skunks " in The Irish Tanner is believed to be the 
 invention of a Nationalist M.P. and true patriot. 
 
 In conclusion, grateful acknowledgment has to be made 
 to the editors of The Spectator, The Globe, The Saturday 
 Review, The Scotsman, The Irish Times, The Union, and 
 The Reflector, for their courteous permission to reprint the 
 pieces which originally appeared in their columns. These 
 are, "The Streets of Dublin," "The New Guy Faux," "The 
 Execration Ode," and " Oh, the Wild Charge He Made!" 
 {Spectator) ; " The Arabian Knight," " The Green Above 
 the Red," " The Anti-English Englishman," " The Wearing 
 of the Blue," and "The Legacy " {Globe) ; " The Groves of 
 Hawarden" {Sahirday Review) ; "The Irish War Song," — in 
 a short and imperfect form — {Scotsman) ; " The Grand Ould 
 Man " {Irish Times) ; " The Irish Tanner" {Union) ; " Cave! 
 to the Classes," "The Irish Vote," and " The Balpha-bet " 
 {Reflector). 
 
There is a stone there, 
 That whoever kisses, 
 Oh ! he never misses 
 
 To grow eloquent : 
 'Tis he may clamber 
 To a lady's chamber, 
 Or become a member 
 
 Of Parliament. 
 A clever spouter 
 He'll sure turn out, or 
 An out-and-outer 
 
 To be let alone : 
 Don't hope to hinder him, 
 Or to bewilder him, 
 Sure he's a pilgrim 
 
 From the Blarney Stone. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Groves of Hawarden 
 
 The Streets of Dublin 
 
 The Munster Maid 
 
 Willy, I Hardly Knew You 
 
 The Mudrake of Mallow 
 
 The Grand Ould Man . 
 
 Irish War Song 
 
 The Wearing of the Blue 
 
 The Tail-less Fox . 
 
 Execration Ode 
 
 The Irish Vote 
 
 The Corporation and the Cholera 
 
 The Wild West Passage 
 
 Two Sides of the Question 
 
 The Arabian Knight . 
 
 Poor Blind Worms 
 
 The League of the Screw 
 
 The Home Rule Balpha-bet 
 
 The Doppingstall . 
 
 The Green Above the Red 
 
 What, You? 
 
 Paid Patriots . 
 
 Cave ! To the Classes 
 
 The Irish Tanner . 
 
 Waiting for the Tide 
 
 FAGB 
 I 
 
 ■ 5 
 ii 
 
 12 
 
 15 
 18 
 23 
 27 
 29 
 3° 
 32 
 
 34 
 37 
 39 
 42 
 45 
 47 
 49 
 5° 
 55 
 58 
 59 
 61 
 67 
 69 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " Oh, the Wild Charge He Made I '• 7 1 
 
 Mr. Orator D 73 
 
 The New Guy Fawkes 75 
 
 The Promise-Breaches ... 77 
 
 An Irish Merry-go-round 79 
 
 Let Erin Return to the Days of Old 8i 
 
 The Legacy . . , . 82 
 
 Lines upon Lyin' 83 
 
 The Anti-English Englishman 85 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 The Rape of the Breeches 
 
 The Groves of Hawarden ("Mat Harris") 
 
 Willy, I Hardly Knew You 
 
 Irish War Song ("Our Great Jasper") 
 
 The Irish Vote (" Tim Healy ") 
 
 Two Sides of the Question (The "Young Irish 
 
 The League of the Screw ("St. Parnell") 
 
 The Doppingstall 
 
 Paid Patriots 
 
 The Irish Tanner 
 
 Mr. Orator D — -. ("The Coo of a Dove") 
 
 Mr. Orator D . ("The Caw of a Crow") 
 
 The Promise-Breaches ("Handsome Bill O'Brien") 
 The (Umbrella) Legacy ... . 
 
 Party " 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 facing p. 4 
 
 J3 
 
 » I2 
 
 >J 
 
 >• 24 
 
 J) 
 
 » 32 
 
 JJ 
 
 >> 4° 
 
 JJ 
 
 „ 48 
 
 JJ 
 
 .. 52 
 
 JJ 
 
 „ 60 
 
 )5 
 
 „ 68 
 
 JJ 
 
 ,, 72 
 
 JJ 
 
 >• 74 
 
 )) 
 
 » 78 
 
 
 „ 82 
 
THE 
 
 BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Gbe (Brqves of Ibawarfcen. 
 
 THE groves of Blarney aren't worth a farden, 
 
 Whin the groves of Hawarden amazed I scan ; 
 And Blarney Castle can't one moment wrastle 
 
 Wid the Gothic mansion of the Grand Ould Man. 
 There the shamrock and thistle together nestle, 
 
 And ye'd fairly whistle at the fragrant leeks, 
 Or at Joseph Gillis, wid his Amaryllis, 
 
 Gatherin' orange lilies in his Sunday breeks. 
 
 'Tis Misther Gladstone that controuls these regions, 
 
 Like the Emperor Nayro or Pope Joan of Arc ; 
 Not even Pharaoh wid all his legions 
 
 Could bombard that hayro from this princely park. 
 For the cute ould spider has Labbyrinths round him, 
 
 Batin' Rosamund's bower itself to explore ; 
 And you're fairly addled whin you think you've cot him, 
 
 To find he's shkedaddled by some fresh back door. 
 
THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 In these crooked courses he has grand resources 
 
 For confabulations wid Government Whips ; 
 And open shpots to resayve deputations, 
 
 Or to turn a pinny by the sale of chips. 
 And quiet corners for artful roguin', 
 
 And sly colloguin' wid beau and belle : — 
 Professor Rogers and Mrs. Prodgers, 
 
 Madame Pell-Mellikoff and Misther Parnell. 
 
 And after his speeches and fellin' of beeches, 
 
 Shlippin' into knee-breeches and Irish frieze ; 
 He's off, the sly fox, like a modern Guy Faux, 
 
 His Gaelic games for to organize. 
 On his pleasure-ground there he prepares for ructions 
 
 By erecting obstructions from place to place ; 
 While Charles Stuart Parnell, wid skill infarnal, 
 
 Arranges his three-legged obstacle-race. 
 
 He links Earl Granville to the martyr Mandeville, 
 
 And Lord Herschell and Dillon ye'd see him yoke, 
 And Charlie Dawson to Sir Wilfrid Lawson, 
 
 And Misther Bradlaugh to Archbishop Croke. 
 And Campbell- Tannerman and Docthor Bannerman 
 
 He mixes up in his merry-go-round ; 
 And sets George Trevelyan riding postilion, 
 
 In green and vermilion, for a million pound. 
 
 Ye'd see Butterscotch Rosebery playin* ould gooseberry 
 Wid T. P. O'Connor and Proteus Blunt ; 
 
 And little Tim Healy, wid his toy shillelagh, 
 Wid Earl Spencer startin' a Land League hunt. 
 
THE GROVES OF HAWARDElSf. 
 
 And some of these athletes have stripped their coats off, 
 And some have turned them upon their backs ; 
 
 While Sir Patrick Ford and Sir Verdant Falstaff 
 Bounce on stark naked in a brace of sacks.* 
 
 There's a saycret grotto, where two-headed Otto, 
 
 That prize chameleon, in the dusk is found, 
 Wid Prince Krapotkin, and Misther Godkin, 
 
 And Sir Edward Watkin, tunnellin' underground. 
 And there's a fishpond like the Slough of Deshpond, 
 
 Wid slimy waters and throubled flood, 
 Full of Irish pikes and Sassenach leeches 
 
 Fattenin' together in the emerald mud. 
 
 -■t> v 
 
 And there's an organ where ould Osborne Morgan 
 
 Plays weddin' marches wid Morganatic grace, 
 Or sings obbligato to the Moonlight sonata 
 
 In the most funayreal tones of his bass. 
 And there's Justin McCarthy and Prince Bonaparte, 
 
 Sipping their caffy as they do abroad ; 
 While silver-tongued Morley wid the lures of the Loreley 
 
 Sings, " Come with me to Hawarden, my Maude, my 
 Maude ! " 
 
 * Lord Hartington, in his speech at Dublin on Nov. 29th, 1887, compar- 
 ing Sir William Harcourt's utterances in 1873 with those delivered in 1887, 
 remarked : — " Well, gentlemen, when we read passages in that character, I 
 think the inquiry presses itself upon us, why it should be necessary, if a 
 politician turns his coat, that he should divest himself of every particle of 
 raiment which he ever possessed." 
 
4 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 There's statues standin' at points commandin' 
 
 Of ivery landin', to enslave the view ; 
 There's Matthew Harris, in plaster of Paris, 
 
 Wid Pontius Pilate and O'Donnell Aboo ! 
 And there's a picture, beyant all stricture, 
 
 — 'Twould make Raphael himself wid envy expire — • 
 'Tis of William O'Brien, that Barbary Lion, 
 
 Airin' his shirt by his dungeon fire.* 
 
 So now to take leave of this marvellous mansion, 
 Which my poor scansion could never enshrine ; 
 
 But were I Horace, or Lewis Morris, 
 Like any shoeblack I'd make it shine. 
 
 * " Doctor Moorhead visited Mr. O'Brien last Friday. . . When Ur. 
 
 Moorhead visited the prisoner, he found him quietly airing his shirt at the 
 fire, it having just come in, nicely done up at the prison laundry." — United 
 Ireland, Dec. ioth, 1887. 
 
" There's Matthew Harris, in plaster of Paris." 
 
THE STREETS OF DUBLIN. 
 
 Gbe Streets of smblin. 
 
 {Originally sung at the Mansion House, Dublin, by Mr. COLLEGE 
 Green, M.P., to the tune of " Molly Carew.") 
 
 [Not many years ago, the Corporation of Dublin hit upon the novel device 
 of wasting time and irritating the loyal minority by rechristening the streets of 
 Dublin. So long as they confined themselves to renaming bridges, nobody 
 interfered; but when they pompously announced their intention of " making, 
 the names of the Dublin streets commemorative of important events in Irish 
 Nationalist History," and when they went a step further, and by a resolution 
 of the Council declared that in future Sackville Street should be known as 
 O'Connell Street, the inhabitants thought it high time to assert their rights. 
 A law-suit followed ; and after the Corporation had wasted a great deal of their 
 own precious time and of the ratepayers' precious money, an injunction was. 
 granted by the Court of Chancery, restraining the Corporation in their 
 extravagant career.] 
 
 Lord Mayor and countrymen dear 
 
 Of this heart-broken Isle, 
 
 Just listen awhile; 
 But first shut the window, bekase that it rains, 
 And a shivering blast's blowing on to my brains. 
 
 Cripes ! as long as I live, 
 
 I'll never forgive 
 The tyrants for shaving my head. 
 
 My beautiful curls, 
 
 That charmed all the girls, 
 
 Ollagone ! in the cell 
 
 Like martyrs ye fell 
 
THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 In the cause — Oh ! it's passing the bounds of belief 
 To think they would treat an M.P. like a thief! 
 
 No matther, some day 
 
 For this same they shall pay : 
 Yes, I swear by the saints in the skies, 
 
 Before the day's past, 
 
 In terror aghast, 
 Their hairs on their heads will uprise. 
 
 The motion to move which I rise ; 
 
 'Twill open their eyes, 
 
 And it's this, and no lies — 
 To rechristen our statues, but not after Butt 
 Or Dan'l O'Connell. The likes of them, tut ! 
 
 Were Whigs in disguise 
 
 Whom we Leaguers despise ; 
 For why ? They were squared most complete : 
 
 But we, you might swear, 
 
 Are harder to square 
 
 Than a circle or globe, 
 
 Or a barrel, be Jobe ! 
 Already our principal streets we've disguised, 
 Our squares by the names of our martyrs baptized — 
 
 As all Dublin agrees, 
 
 Liffey's bridges and quays 
 By any name smell just as sweet. 
 
 In the matter of smell, 
 
 Plase God we'll excel, 
 Till the Divil's own nose we've surprised ! — 
 
THE STREETS OF DUBLIN. \ 
 
 But as for these statues, the scum ! 
 
 We'd like well to shatter 'em, 
 
 Batter 'em, scatter 'em, 
 Tear 'em and tatter 'em, annihilate 'em, 
 Make a clane sweep, root and branch desolate 'em. 
 
 But whatever we feel, 
 
 We must curb our zeal, 
 For we find it would take such a powdhering sum 
 
 To drown in the say, 
 
 Or remove them away, 
 
 And fill up their places 
 
 With our purty faces ; 
 And the money's all wanted in Paris or London 
 To pay our expenses, or else we are undone. 
 
 So we think, on reflection, 
 
 There's not much objection 
 To laving them standing all plumb ; 
 
 And we'll not spoil the faytures 
 
 Of the deaf and dumb craytures, 
 So long as they're not troublesome. 
 
 Now they're stuck up so high on a post 
 
 That the Divil can't see 
 
 If they're like you or me : 
 As for Nelson, that white-livered English poltroon, 
 Faith ! his face might be meant for the man in the moon 
 
 Then why shouldn't his figure 
 
 Betoken Joe Biggar ? — 
 Joe Biggar, our pride and our boast ! 
 
THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 And, bigger or smaller, 
 
 It's Biggar we'll call her; 
 And to clear up all doubt what the marble may mean, 
 We'll give him a coatee of beautiful green. 
 
 Lord ! how he will curse ! 
 
 The dead man changed at nurse ! 
 Was the likes of that same ever seen ? 
 
 Arrah ! Nelson, " have at you ! " — 
 
 If we don't raze your statue, 
 We'll go mighty nigh raising your ghost. 
 
 Let 'em talk of their interests vested ! 
 
 Whigs and Tories may swear, 
 
 But what do we care ? 
 Their heaviest losses we count for our gain — 
 And curses are music to those who disdain. 
 
 We'll show them no pity, 
 
 For Dublin's our city, 
 We may do what we like with our own. 
 
 No more we'll allow, 
 
 With a wreath on his brow, 
 
 That " souper * " King Will 
 
 The broad street to fill 
 With his carcase ; — No, Davitt shall sit there of course, 
 Oh ! 'tis he would look illigant sot on a horse, 
 
 * A contemptuous synonym for Protestant, originally applied to those 
 whose conversion from Roman Catholicism ivas supposed to have been 
 effected by gifts of soup. 
 
THE STREETS OF DUBLIN. 
 
 Wid a stick in his hand, — 
 
 He'd look mighty grand, 
 And 'tis then he would show you his mettle, 
 
 With three legs in the air, 
 
 And his tail flowing fair, — 
 In his stirrups bold Davitt we'll settle. 
 
 And now, boys, before we conclude, 
 
 I propose that we do 
 
 Rechristen a few 
 Of our neighbours, who're men of notorious bad name. 
 Our landlords, the reptiles ! we'll call 'em " Ground Game"; 
 
 And then in all rayson, 
 
 They'd be iver in sayson, 
 And the tinants might pot 'em, when viewed ; 
 
 While if licence they'd none 
 
 To carry a gun, 
 
 They'd but call it a " pen," * 
 
 And, — don't you see, then ? — 
 
 * When Mr. Michael Davitt was on his trial at the Central Criminal Court, 
 London, in July, 1870, on the charge of having been engaged in sending 
 revolvers, etc., to Ireland, for criminal purposes, one of the witnesses called 
 for the defence was a journalist and lecturer named Arthur Forrester. He 
 was correspondent of the Irishman, and did all he could to shield Davitt. 
 A letter was, however, produced, and put into his hand which threw a lurid 
 light on the character of the prisoner, and which his friend and associate had 
 to acknowledge was in Davitt's handwriting. The letter was as follows, the 
 explanations, indicated by the brackets, being those given by Forrester :— 
 
 " Mv dear Friend, — In reference to the other affair, I hope you will not 
 take any part in carrying it out. If it is decided upon, and you receive Tim's 
 and through him Fitz's consent, let it be done by all means ; but one thing 
 
to THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Wid a stroke from its barrel their limbs they might splinter, 
 And not have to wait for the long nights of winter. 
 
 And now boys, here goes ! 
 
 Which is Ayes ? which is Noes ? 
 Don't speak all at once, for it's rude ; 
 
 But just whisper soft 
 
 To the chairman aloft, 
 And your votes, if they re "Noes" he' 11 exclude. 
 
 you must remember, and that is, that you are of too much importance to your 
 family [the Fenian organization] to be spared, even at the risk of allowing a 
 rotten sheep to exist among the flock [the Fenians]. All care and trouble of 
 the last twelve months will have been in vain. Whoever may be employed 
 to do it [commit the murder] let him not use the pen [revolver] we have been 
 selling, but a common one." (See Cox's Criminal Cases, vol. ii., p. 679; and 
 Times, July 18, 19, and 20, 1870. 
 
THE MUNSTER MAID. n 
 
 Zbe flDunster flfcaib. 
 
 (With apologies to the shade of Tom Moore.) 
 
 The Munster maid to the wars has gone, — 
 
 Mick Davitt's voice awoke her ; 
 Her porridge-pot she has girded on, 
 
 And grasped the family poker. 
 " Munster men ! " cried that Amazon bould, 
 
 " Tho' all the world defied ye, 
 This arm for you the fort would hould, 
 
 These faithful petticoats hide ye." 
 
 The battle raged, but the foemen fled, 
 
 Before her bilin' courage, 
 For first with her poker she'd open a head, 
 
 And then pour in hot porridge ; 
 Till the boys from her petticoat folds crept out, 
 
 And accepted her invitation, 
 To help her to finish the stirabout, 
 
 On an inward application. 
 
12 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Wills, 3 Ibarbty Urnew Jflou. 
 
 . As I tuk the road to College Green, 
 
 Hurroo ! Hurroo! 
 As I tuk the road to College Green, 
 
 Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 
 As I tuk the road to College Green, 
 Wid my twirlin' stick and my cocked caubeen, 
 Says Erin, " The likes was never seen ; 
 Willy, I hardly knew you ! 
 
 Wid your green turned coat 
 
 Buttoned up to your throat, 
 1 Tis the divil's delight to view you. 
 O darlin' dear, you look so queer, 
 
 Faith, Willy, I hardly knew you. 
 
 "' Where are your eyes that flashed so dread ? 
 
 Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 
 Where are your eyes that flashed so dread ? 
 
 Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 
 Where are your eyes that flashed so dread, 
 That I thought on the spot they'd strike me dead ? 
 Faith ! they're smilin' upon me now instead ; 
 
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WILLY, I HARDLY KNEW YOU. 13 
 
 I 
 
 Why, Willy, I hardly knew you ! 
 
 Wid your green turned coat 
 
 Buttoned up to your throat, 
 Tis the divil's delight to view you. 
 O darlin' dear, you look so queer, 
 
 Faith, Willy, I hardly knew you. 
 
 " Where is your tongue that spake so fierce ? 
 
 Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 
 Where is your tongue that spake so fierce ? 
 
 Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 
 Where is your tongue that spake so fierce, 
 That I thought my very vitals 'twould pierce ? 
 Troth ! it's now for Home Rule, wid its carte and tierce ; 
 Why, Willy, I hardly knew you ! 
 
 Wid your green turned coat 
 
 Buttoned up to your throat, 
 'Tis the divil's delight to view you. 
 O darlin' dear, you look so queer, 
 
 Faith, Willy, I hardly knew you. 
 
 It grieved my heart to hear you rail, 
 
 Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 
 And pack all my patriot sons to gaol, 
 
 r Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 
 But now, since so finely you've trimmed your sail, 
 And giv'n the Coercionist crew leg-bail, 
 Like a cod you're doubled up, head and tail ; 
 
»4 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Faith, Willy, I hardly knew you ! 
 Wid your green turned coat 
 Buttoned up to the throat, 
 'Tis the divil's delight to view you. 
 O darlin' dear, you look so queer, 
 
 Faith, Willy, I hardly knew you. 
 
 " I'm happy to see you've changed your tack, 
 
 Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 
 I'm happy to see you've changed your tack, 
 
 Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 
 I'm happy to see you've changed your tack, 
 And taken ould Ireland on your back, 
 And let ould England go all to rack ; 
 Faith, Willy, I hardly knew you ! 
 Wid your green turned coat 
 Buttoned up to your throat, 
 'Tis the divil's delight to view you. 
 O darlin' dear, you look so queer, 
 
 Faith, Willy, I hardly knew you. 
 
THE MUDRAKE OF MALLOW. 15 
 
 tlbe fll>ubrafce of flftallow. 
 
 (To the air of " The Rakes . of Mallow.") 
 
 When the Landlords got the staggers, 
 Underneath our Home Rule daggers, 
 Prince of Parnell's carpet-baggers, 
 Bill came in for Ulster. 
 
 Then he tuk a fine position 
 At St. Stephen's exhibition, 
 Till exchanged by extradition 
 Far away from Ulster. 
 
 'Twasn't right of Misther Russell, 
 Wid such rude display of muscle, 
 Our poor patriot to hustle 
 Out of Orange Ulster. 
 
 But you couldn't tame a lion 
 Wid the soul of Bill O'Brien, 
 So wid banners bravely flyin' 
 He marched in for Mallow. 
 
 Dublin's best of rank and fashion 
 With his gallant goose-quill gashin , 
 Then across the ocean splashin', 
 At one bound from Mallow. 
 
1 6 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Thinking Lansdowne he had snaffled, 
 But scarce rescued, bate and baffled 
 By his arm from lynch-law scaffold, 
 Poor M.P. for Mallow. 
 
 Spouting, shouting to the Nations 
 Anti-English execrations, 
 Burnin' Royal Proclamations, 
 Proud M.P. for Mallow. 
 
 Like the king of beasts his cage in, 
 For his stolen breeks stravagin', 
 Rampin', stampin', roarin', ragin', 
 Mild M.P. for Mallow. 
 
 Yet O press your softest pedal, 
 For the martyr with his medal * 
 From the thumbscrew and the treadle, 
 See ! returns to Mallow. 
 
 * In the Cork Herald of January 27th, 1888, under the heading "A 
 Touching Souvenir " occurs the following description of a pendant presented 
 to Mr. William O'Brien, M.P., at a banquet on the previous evening : — ''The 
 pendant is the shape of a natural heart, and about an inch in length, sur- 
 mounted by a miniature cross and surrounded by ten gold shots, intended for 
 reciting a decade of the rosary. Encased in this, and underneath a polished 
 domed crystal, are ten bullets taken from the bodies of the men shot at 
 Mitchelstown on the memorable 9th of Sept., 1887, where they assembled 
 to show sympathy with Mr. William O'Brien, who was the central figure at 
 the now famous trial of himself and Mr. Mandeville. The bullets are 
 amalgamated and rest under an enamelled shamrock formed of three hearts, 
 which are of flesh colour, and showing effectively a wound in each, as if 
 
THE MUDRAKE OF MALLOW. 17 
 
 Like the radiant sun he's risen 
 From the dark night of his prison, 
 Balfour now shall waste and wizen 
 At this blaze of Mallow. 
 
 See ! around him how there presses, 
 With the prettiest addresses, 
 Widows young, ould maids and misses, 
 Round the rake of Mallow. 
 
 Irish beauties are debatin', 
 English heiresses compatin' 
 Which of them shall now be tratin' 
 Herself to Bill of Mallow. 
 
 Come ! from out these charming witches 
 Choose one rollin' in her riches 
 To be your wife — p'raps wear your breeches, — 
 My bould M.P. for Mallow ! 
 
 pierced with a bullet. The three leaves formed of the hearts are supported 
 by a green stem, and are very striking. On the outside is a gold polished 
 plate on which is inscribed ' Remember Mitchelstown. Lead taken from the 
 bodies of Michael Lonergan, Jeremiah Casey, and Jeremiah Shinnick, who 
 were murdered by the police at Mitchelstown, September 9th, '87. R.I. P."' 
 
THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 £be (Branfc ©ul& flDan. 
 
 Christmas, 1887. 
 
 {To the tune of the "Shan Van Vocht.") 
 
 " I'm crossing o'er the say," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " For my Christmas holiday," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " But before I shlips away 
 From Dover to Calais, 
 Of coorse I'll have my say," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 " I'm going on the thramp," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " Wid ten postcards and a shtamp," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " I'm going on the thramp, 
 Wid my hatchet and my gamp, 
 By the light of Freedom's lamp," 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 " I'm going to see the Czar," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 
 " Lord Randolph's plots to mar," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 
THE GRAND OULD MAN 
 
 ' I'm going to see the Czar — 
 My only guiding star — 
 On an Irish jaunting car," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 " I'm going to read the lessons," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " The First and Second Lessons," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " To his Holiness the Pope; 
 For I've consayved the hope 
 That he'll give ould Ireland rope," 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 " I'm going to the Bastille," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " For a month widout appeal," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " And for fear my treach'rous foes 
 Should purloin my nether hose, 
 I'll wear a Highland kilt," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 •' I'm going to Jasper Pyne," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " On his pinnacle divine," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " For I'm longing wonderfully 
 To be hoisted by a pulley 
 With that bould Milesian bully," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
THE JsMRNEY BALLADS. 
 
 " Remember Mitchelstown ! " 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " Where they shot the pathriots down," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " Don't make the laste resistance, 
 But keep them at a distance 
 Wid soft stones and tepid wather," 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 " And if your neighbour Teague,'' 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " Goes conthrairy to the League," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man : 
 " Dorit thrate him as a leper, 
 Dorit refuse to sell him pepper, 
 But obsarve exclusive dealin'," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 " I'm going to Chittagong," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " To avenge ould Ireland's wrong," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 <: I can't find it on the map, 
 But I don't care one rap, 
 For I'm going to Chittagong," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 "And from Chittagong to China," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 
 " And Hong Kong to Carolina," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 
THE GRAND OULJD MAN 
 
 " At ivery railway station 
 I'll explain the situation 
 Till Ireland is a nation ! " 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 " And when I've done my chopping," 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " My changing and my chopping," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man ; 
 " I'm going landlord-popping ' 
 With my dear friend, Colonel Dopping, — 
 Of coorse wid empty rifles," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 " What colour shall we wear, 
 
 You Grand Ould Man ? 
 What colour shall we wear, 
 
 You Grand Ould Man ? " 
 *' Why, what colour should be seen 
 But your own immortal green, — 
 In the corner of our eyes ? " 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
 *' And when will you come back, 
 Our Grand Ould Man ? 
 Triumphant on your track, 
 
 Our Grand Ould Man ? " 
 * When Balfour 's got the sack, 
 And Salisbury 's had to- pack, 
 Before our Paddy-whack," 
 
 Says the Grand Ould Man. 
 
22 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 " And will Ireland then be free, 
 You Grand Ould Man? 
 And will Ireland then be free, 
 
 You Grand Ould Man ? " 
 " Yes ; Ireland s/ia//be free, 
 From the Causeway to Kilkee — 
 Then Hurrah ! Hurrah for ME." 
 
 Shouts the Grand Ould Man. 
 
IRISH WAR SONG. 23 
 
 3risb War Sono. 
 
 (To the air of " O'Donnell Aboo.") 
 
 [Under the provisions of the Crimes Act a warrant -for the arrest of Mr. 
 Jasper Douglas Pyne, M.P. for West Waterford, was issued early in November, 
 1887. To evade the service of the warrant, Mr. Pyne took refuge in a ruin 
 adjoining his ordinary residence, where, as United Ireland says, with " an 
 ample store of provisions and creature comforts, places of security, and 
 retreats in abundance," he spent several weeks in voluntary imprisonment. 
 When deputations from Tallow and elsewhere visited him, Mr. Pyne was let 
 down by a rope and pulley from a height of about eighty feet to within 
 fifteen feet of the ground. The special correspondent of United Ireland, 
 who visited Mr. Pyne, stated, that to climb the staircases, " amid a darkness 
 as intense as that of a railway tunnel, requires no ordinary agility, not to say 
 nerve ; for the steps have all but disappeared, and their places are filled with 
 loose stones which slip away beneath your feet. . . . Though Mr. Pyne 
 has a good many visitors to whom he speaks from his windows or invites to 
 brave the perils of an entrance into his castle, he spends, necessarily, a good 
 part of the twenty-four hours alone. ' Yet,' said he to me, with a smile, ' I 
 am never altogether without company, for I have two owls up there,' pointing 
 to an ivy-covered old turret, ' with whom I made acquaintance before I had 
 been very long here.'" — United Ireland, Nov. 25 th, 1887.] 
 
 Hail to the Emerald Hope of Lisfmny ! 
 
 " Honoured and blest be the evergreen Pyne ! * 
 Gems from Golconda, or gold from New Guinea, 
 Pale by the glow of this jewel divine. 
 Heaven, should his eyelids close, 
 Watch o'er his nether hose, 
 
24 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Ne'er may he don the dread garments of blue : 
 
 Long may his pulley swing, 
 
 Long may he lurk and sing, 
 " Strike for Listinny and Jasper Aboo ! " 
 
 Ours is no clerk from a city or county bank, 
 Blooming at Brighton on Bank holidays ; 
 Ours is a perfect political mountebank 
 Dancing and prancing upon the trapeze. 
 
 Safe widout bolt or lock, 
 
 Scorning the peeler's knock, 
 Higher he clambers the more they pursue. 
 
 Silence ! ye cynical, 
 
 Pyne's on his pinnacle, 
 Blaze of our binnacle, Jasper Hurroo ! 
 
 Then, as you'd witness a grand golden eagle 
 
 Out of his eyrie high perched on the height, 
 Swooping to snatch the swift hare from the beagle, 
 See our great Jasper darts down in his might. 
 
 Hi ! Kern and gallowglass, 
 
 Tallow lad, Tallow lass, 
 Jasper has dropped like a bolt from the blue ; 
 
 Pierce with your pillalu 
 
 Kerry and Killaloe, 
 "Jasper, a Jasper, a Jasper Aboo!" 
 
 There in the air like a child's coloured bladder, 
 
 Softly he bobs for awhile by the wall ; 
 Then, like an angel on Jacob's own ladder, 
 
" See our great Jasper darts down in his might." 
 
IRISH WAR SONG. 25 
 
 Hark ! his oration he fiercely lets fall. 
 
 Never such fiery tropes, 
 
 Metaphors, metascopes, 
 Blasted the coward coercionist crew : 
 
 Scipio, Sosthenes, 
 
 Burke and Demosthenes, 
 Pyne, were just poor penny whistles to you. 
 
 Well, when they'd printed your speech in the papers, 
 
 Johnny Bright cursed you, you hit him so hard ; 
 Chamberlain over his codfish cut capers, 
 Hartington fainted in Parliament Yard. 
 
 " Seize him ! " black Balfour said, 
 
 Cowering with conscious dread ; 
 ■" Fetch me that villain's head quick, some of you.' 
 
 Yet still you faced your foes, 
 
 Smiling mid owls and crows, 
 Wid your thumb on your nose, Jasper Aboo ! 
 
 Talk of the sieges of Carthage, Jerusalem, 
 
 Nineveh, Ascalon, Acre, and Troy: — 
 Had the blockaders a Pyne to bamboozle 'em, 
 Plague them and all their manoeuvres destroy ? 
 
 No ! your Psam'meticus, 
 
 Pompey, Leviticus, 
 Each had ten thousand of troops to subdue : 
 
 Where's the comparison ? 
 
 Here the whole garrison 
 Solely consisted of J asper A boy ! 
 
26 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Lo ! in his castle unconquered, our hero 
 
 Bothered and baffled base Balfour's brigade ; 
 Till, when their spirits had sunk down to zero, 
 They just pertinded to raise their blockade. 
 
 " Ah, would you wheedle us ? " 
 
 Chuckled our Daedalus ; 
 " Come, of your tricks this is worth any two." 
 
 So, o'er their cordon ring, 
 
 Wid a surprising spring, 
 Safe on his pulley went Jasper Aboo ! 
 
 ' Where are you going to, Jasper, our Jasper ? " 
 His comrades cried out to that bould aerolite. 
 *' To prepare Misther Speaker a regular rasper," 
 Says he, " on the very next Parliament night 
 For from my place, boys, 
 Into his face, boys, 
 Like any flamingo by Jingo I'll fly ; 
 Until I have fully 
 Convinced the ould bully 
 That though I'm suspinded I'll spake til. 1 T diet 
 
THE WEARING OF THE BLUE. 23 
 
 Gbe Wearing of tbe Blue. 
 
 Gladdy dear, the prospect here's emphatically blank, 
 Since Balfour, that un-canny Scot, has laid me on the plank ; 
 
 1 can't defy the Speaker, or insult the Tory crew, 
 
 But I pine alone, Och ollagone ! in a shoddy suit of blue. 
 
 I'm not a dapper dandy, but I've got a tender hide, 
 
 And the touch of stuff that's harsh or rough I never could 
 
 abide ; 
 We're the most disthressful martyrs that have felt the Saxon 
 
 scourge, 
 For they're tickling us to death in scores wid their sacrilagious 
 
 serge ! 
 
 Och, Gladdy, if you've any friends who serve in the Marines, 
 Be sure and tell them something of these awful prison 
 
 scenes, — 
 How minus breeks for three long weeks I fasted on the flure, 
 Because they made me take a bath, a thing I can't endure. 
 Och, Erin, what'll come to you if 'neath his iron wrist 
 We're all to be blue-moulded by the vile ventriloquist ? 
 Dear Gladdy, if you love me, can't you smuggle down the 
 
 flue 
 A suit of any colour but this everlasting blue ? 
 
28 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Oh, if the colour we must wear is cruel Balfour's blue, 
 Let it remind us that our blood's of that patrician hue ! 
 Then pluck the shamrock from your hat and pitch it on the 
 
 floor, 
 One day 'twill blossom in a brew of Kensingtonian Gore ! 
 When Fraud's no longer lucrative in either of these isles, 
 When England learns to steel her heart 'gainst blubbering 
 
 crocodiles, 
 Then in some other colour I'll triumphantly emerge, 
 But till that day I'll wrap my clay in sacrificial serge. 
 
THE TAIL-LESS FOX. ay 
 
 " Brother foxes, in a trap 
 
 I allowed my tail go snap, 
 For I found it, by experience, 
 Most mischeevious to a chap. 
 
 " Let me use my battle-axe 
 
 On the brushes at your backs ; 
 
 And they'll be ho more temptation 
 
 To the low fox-hunting packs." 
 
 So an ould fox made remark, 
 From his earth at Hawarden Park ;- 
 He might as well have axed their tails 
 From the bastes in Noah's ark. 
 
 For up spake Johnny Bright, 
 That cute ould Quaker sprite : 
 *' I'm not of your opinion, sir, 
 
 And I think I'll prove I'm right. 
 
 " Come, make the frank admission, 
 
 That you envy our condition, 
 And out of spite concealed, invite 
 Our caudal demolition. 
 
 " You desarve to lose your head, 
 
 For the life you've lately led ; 
 But Providence was marciful, 
 And took your tail instead." 
 
50 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Eyecration ©be. 
 
 (From the Balfuriad, a Threnody in Three Throes.) 
 
 ["The Coercion Act has now been for nearly three months in force, but it 
 is only of late that Lanky-doodle Balfour has gone in for carrying out the first 
 instalment of blundering brutality. . . . Even the imprisonment of our 
 heroic leader, William O'Brien, has not brought what Balfour would swim in 
 if he had a chance — blood ; for blood is all he desires." — Dr. Tanner 's Speech 
 it Kilmurry, November 6th, 1887. J 
 
 O lean, lackadaisical lizard, 
 
 Foul filcher of hats and of hose, 
 Till the comb from thy crest I have scissored, 
 
 May I ne'er breathe the balm of repose! 
 May the bitterest blast of the blizzard, 
 
 Green gosling, ferocious and fell, 
 Hurl thee cleft, and bereft of thy gizzard, 
 To the hearthstone of Hell ! 
 
 O pasty-faced, pallid apostle 
 
 Of devilry, death, and deceit, 
 Who with calumnies coarse and colossal 
 
 Conspirest our cause to defeat ; 
 Blood-boltered, fanatical fossil, 
 
 In gore thou would st gleefully float, 
 Couldst thou wring like the neck of the throstle 
 Every Parnellite throat. 
 
EXECRATION ODE. 31 
 
 Base booby, beloved of Boodle's, 
 
 False shepherd of Salisbury's flock, 
 Crown Prince of contemptible poodles, 
 
 Demi-devil of Satan's own stock, 
 O Nincompoop ! nullest of noodles, 
 
 Fierce fiend with the fatuous face, 
 To the limbo of limp " lanky-doodles " 
 Get thee gone in disgrace. 
 
 Long lamp-lighter, lorn of thy ladder 
 
 Vile, voluptuous ventriloquist, 
 Thou art making us madder and madder, 
 
 'Neath the gripe of thy finical fist. 
 Art thou deaf, thou detestable adder ? 
 
 Hath thy hide no susceptible spot ? 
 Wilt thou prick the great Parnellite bladder, 
 Thou saturnine Scot ? 
 
 Peace, peace ; the forked tongue of our foemen 
 
 Commands not one adequate curse, 
 One sufficiently savage agnomen, 
 
 To hiss o'er thy horrible hearse. 
 Yet may owls of uncanniest omen 
 
 Croon coronachs over thy corse, 
 While I prance on thy prostrate abdomen, 
 And howl myself hoarse. 
 
32 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Zbe 3nsb Dote. 
 
 {With apologies to the author of "The Irish Wife." 
 
 I would not swap my Irish vote 
 
 For a sight of the blind old Chian bard ; 
 I would not swap my Irish vote, 
 
 For the satrapy of Scotland Yard ; 
 For howsoe'er I trim and tack, 
 
 M y chance of power's not worth a groat, 
 Unless I pack behind my back 
 
 An overwhelming' Irish vote. 
 
 Oh, what would be this House to me, 
 
 Now John and Joseph stand aloof, 
 Without the sounds of Celtic glee 
 
 That nightly ring beneath its roof ? 
 I love the rich, melodious brogue 
 
 That ripples from Tim Healy's throat * 
 Oh, Tanner's a delightful rogue 
 
 On whom I delicately dote. 
 
 My Irish vote is staunch as steel, 
 
 It never disobeys its head, 
 It shows no charity to Peel, 
 
 But it has fearless faith instead. 
 
THE IRISH VOTE. 33 
 
 It groans, it interrupts, it boos, 
 
 It mocks the cock, the billygoat ; 
 Yet, when / rise, no cushat coos 
 
 More softly than my Irish vote. 
 
 For Cromwell's crimes to weep I'm fain, 
 
 Bodyke goes through me like a dart, 
 I've got Boyne Water on the brain, 
 
 And Mitchelstown upon the heart. 
 I've bought a suit of Blarney tweed, 
 
 And Blunt has lent me his top-coat ; 
 Job's comforters no more I need, 
 
 Enveloped in my Irish vote. 
 
 I would not give my Irish vote 
 
 For Vanderbilt's portentous pile, 
 I'd yield, without one murm'ring note, 
 
 A spring of everlasting ile. 
 In my salad days I was half a Tory, 
 
 Then I stroked the old Coercion boat ; 
 But now I shall book bang through to glory 
 
 For the ticket I've took is fhe Irish vote. 
 
34 THE BLABNEY BALLADS. 
 
 £be Corporation ano tbe Cbolera* 
 
 AN ECLOGUE. 
 
 Fever and Cholera at Marseilles. 
 
 [The Dublin Corporation, like every other Board in the south and west of 
 Ireland which is chosen by the people, has degenerated into a mere debating 
 society. The time of the Council is taken up by the discussion of barren 
 political resolutions, while municipal business is neglected. As might be 
 expected, Dublin, though the most heavily taxed city in the United King- 
 dom, is one of the worst lighted, worst paved, and worst drained capitals 
 in the civilized world. The death-rate often exceeds 40 per 1,000. The 
 sewage of the city flows into the Liffey, a stream which runs almost dry 
 in summer ; and if cholera were to take up its abode there, the mortality 
 amongst the shipping population on the Liffey would probably rival the death 
 roll in Marseilles Harbour a few years ago. J 
 
 Fever. Welcome, messmate, welcome, pest ! 
 Welcome to my throbbing breast. 
 [They embrace.'] 
 'Tis years since our last merry meeting. 
 
 Cholera. Fond pestilence, accept my greeting ! 
 
 Fever. [Sniffing about.~\ 
 
 I never smelt so sweet a stink, 
 Except upon the Liffey's brink. 
 How old we grow! 'Twas years ago, 
 And yet the mem'ry makes me glow. 
 
THE CORPORATION AND THE CHOLERA. 
 
 Dear dirty Dublin's scented lanes, 
 With houses honeycombed by drains, 
 From Hell might tempt the very devil — 
 For though in brimstone he may revel, 
 In Dublin even common men 
 Breathe sulphuretted hydrogen. 
 
 Cholera. Oh yes, I love the Dublin fare, 
 
 Where slums lie close behind each square. 
 
 We always found some stagnant ditch 
 
 Close by the houses of the rich, 
 
 From which through crannies small we crept. 
 
 For second course, while mourners wept, 
 
 Habitually we discussed 
 
 A helping of the " Upper Crust." 
 
 Fever. If Dublin flesh-pots are the best, 
 Suppose we journey to the west ? 
 Yes ; let's be off, or while we dream 
 They'll cleanse the Liffey's living stream. 
 
 Cholera. Nay, pretty pest, they will not cheat 
 
 Old friends of their long promised treat ; 
 The Council would not condescend to 
 (Far weightier matters they attend to) 
 Expend their precious time in thinking 
 Of means to stop a stream from stinking. 
 For patriots, it would be a crime 
 On sewers and drains to waste their time 
 Or look a trifle nearer home ; — 
 Till they convert the Pope of Rome, 
 
 35 
 
36 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 And force him to withdraw his ban 
 Against boycotting and the "plan," — 
 Till Mitchelstown's forgotten quite, 
 And bloody Balfour scotched outright,-^ 
 Sweet spawn, believe me, they'll not clean 
 The lethal Liffey's cesspool green. 
 Why, at this very hour that villain 
 Is striving hard to capture Dillon, 
 And that, of course, must claim attention 
 Before a Bill for smell prevention. 
 And after that's discussed, I'm told, 
 The freedom of their City old, 
 Enshrined in caskets all of gold, 
 To every convict will be sent — 
 And that will take from this till Lent. 
 
 Fever. To-day the City fathers flocked 
 
 Into their Hall, and having locked 
 And barred the door, under their seal 
 They vowed, that till they got Repeal, 
 They won't be bothered with debates, 
 And won't devote the City rates 
 To quench a stench or quell a smell. 
 
 Cholera. Then, sweet disease, your doubts dispel. 
 In France to-day we'll take our fling ; 
 And in the summer or the spring, 
 To Dublin we our way will wing. 
 
 Both, Here, then, we'll stay till Lent is passed 
 We'll keep our tit-bit for the last. 
 
THE WILD WEST PASSAGE 37 
 
 Gbe Wilfc West passage. 
 
 With our captain old we're still out in the cold, 
 In search of the Wild West Passage, 
 
 We sight no port, our prog's run short, 
 And we sigh for fresh steak and sassidge. 
 
 But our skipper, he is in boisterous glee 
 
 At a castaway cargo we've found, 
 A crazy hull, of ensilage full, 
 
 " For," says he, " 'tis a sign of dry ground." 
 
 " And this grand green food is best for the blood, 
 When it's touched with a taint of scurvy ; 
 And dash my wig, if Biggar's salt pig 
 Hasn't turned us all topsy-turvey. 
 
 " So we'll swallow the shamrock and lick the leek, 
 And oblivious of all their bristles, 
 We'll cram our cheek, — like an animal meek 
 I'll not mention — with Scotia's thistles." 
 
 So he prates and prates, but we've grown so sick 
 
 Of his constant diet of clover, 
 That If he goes on with his scurvy trick, 
 
 We shall go for our old sea-rover, 
 
38 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 And set him free on the wild west sea, 
 
 As free as the wind and the air ; 
 Yes, set him afloat in his jolly boat, 
 
 Chock full of his jolly green fare : 
 
 Where the goose and the gull in the tempest's lull 
 
 Alone shall list to his lingo ; 
 Yes, we'll cut him adrift, and leave him to shift 
 
 For himself, we will, by Jingo ! 
 
TWO SIDES OF THE QUESTION. 39 
 
 Gwo Sloes of tbe (Question. 
 
 I. HERS.— BILLY MACHREE. 
 {To the Air of " Gille Machree.") 
 
 Billy Machree, 
 
 Sit down by me, 
 My love for you no more I'll smother; 
 
 But hand in hand, 
 
 My hayro grand, 
 We'll fondle one another. 
 
 When I was poor 
 
 In power, to be sure 
 My charms you didn't at all discover : 
 
 But when I grew strong, 
 
 You didn't wait long, 
 To declare yourself my lover. 
 
 The Irish Church before you fell, 
 
 In spite of your foe's resistance: — 
 Says you, "Its fall from Clerkenwell wall 
 
 Was a measurable distance." 
 
 Says I, " Stuff, stuff! 
 That's not enough, 
 The tithes they wouldn't support a plover : 
 Can't you do more, 
 Bould Billy astore, 
 
10 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 To prove yourself my lover ? " 
 
 So your supple fingers upon the clefs 
 
 Of politics you laid, love, 
 And the glorious tune of the three good F's, 
 
 To the landlords' grief you played, love. 
 
 I might have said, 
 
 " Since you've obeyed 
 Your Irish maid so very politely, 
 
 For better or worse, 
 
 For blessing or curse, 
 Take her hand in yours, sir, tightly." 
 
 But then I thought, in our after lives 
 
 You mightn't prove so compliant, 
 For Englishmen sometimes batter their wives 
 
 When they turn out a taste defiant. 
 
 And so I cried, 
 
 " Before I'm your bride, 
 You must first provide such a settlement for me 
 
 As will render me 
 
 Independent, you see, 
 Should you ever forget to adore me. 
 
 For through this plan, 
 
 You Grand Ould Man, 
 Though I've hopes of love resplendent, 
 
 If it turned to hate, 
 
 We could separate, 
 And each live independent" 
 
" I and my beautiful bride. 
 
TWO SIDES OF THE QUESTION. 41 
 
 And so one day, 
 
 With courage gay, 
 You accepted my soft suggestion ; 
 
 Dropped on your knees 
 
 With graceful ease, 
 And popped me the Home Rule Question. 
 
 I raised you gladly from the ground, 
 
 I hadn't the heart to tease you ; 
 And now that in one bond we're bound, 
 
 Like a boa consthrictor I'll squeeze you 
 
 II. HIS— A LEAP-YEAR MATCH. 
 When that gay and hearty young Irish party 
 
 Was only sweet seventeen, 
 I thought her as pert and forward a flirt 
 
 As ever my eyes had seen, 
 And I scorned her fancies and snubbed her advances 
 
 With the dignity of a Dean. 
 
 But a sturdy sage in his green old age, 
 
 May well be allowed a mate ; 
 We're no longer chicks, for she's eighty-six, 
 
 And I'm past seventy-eight, 
 And in leap-year season it's positive treason 
 
 To expect a spinster to wait ! 
 
 So if she discloses her flame and proposes, 
 
 I'll wed her with absolute pride : 
 Nay, more, I'll importune the goddess Good Fortune 
 
 To permit us to sit side by side, 
 With hearts still unsundered, till we're both past one hundred, — 
 
 I and my beautiful bride. 
 
42 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 £be Hrabian Iknigbt. 
 
 [It would not be difficult to devise an appropriate agnomen for Mr. Blunt. 
 Taking into account his fondness for horseflesh and his enthusiasm for Islam, 
 one might not inaptly declare him to be the Arabian Knight of the Home 
 Rule party. — Liberal Unionist.] 
 
 O Arabian Knight ! 
 
 Do not quail, do not shrink, 
 For your friends are showing lashin's of fight, 
 
 And slinging oceans of ink. 
 And Gladstone has told the Pope 
 
 Of your sad and perilous plight ; 
 And the evening star is full of hope 
 
 My Arabian Knight ! 
 
 My invincible Islamite ! 
 Then do not whimper, do not mope, 
 For the sanguine star is full of hope, 
 
 My impetuous Ishmaelite ! 
 
 Yet why did you go 
 
 And defy the police ? 
 You're delicate, we all of us know, 
 
 And were ever a lover of peace. 
 Oh, it makes me shudder and wince 
 
 To think of you, frail and slight, 
 
THE ARABIAN KNIGHT. 43 
 
 Condemned to lodge at the State's expinse 
 
 For one innocent platform fight ! 
 
 My Arabian Knight ! 
 
 My Protean Parnellite ! 
 To think of you, my invisible Prince, 
 Condemned to scour and scrub and rinse, 
 
 Morning and noon and night. 
 
 O Mussulman horde ! 
 
 Say, where have ye fled ? 
 Why linger ye to draw the sword 
 
 In defence of so dear a head ? 
 Oh, it's getting beyond a joke, 
 
 And it's neither decent nor right 
 For India to crouch beneath her yoke, 
 
 My Arabian Knight ! 
 
 My sophistical Stagirite ! 
 To make no effort to break her yoke 
 When you're shut up, like a pig in a poke, 
 
 Or a beggarly Bedlamite. 
 
 Oh, it fills me with rage, 
 
 And racks me with dread, 
 To know you're fretting in your cage, 
 
 And well-nigh worn to a thread. 
 But though Balfour is " on the pounce," 
 
 We'll knock from that craven kite 
 Every single ounce of brag and bounce, — 
 
 We will, my Arabian Knight ! 
 
44 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 My dauntless Adullamite ! 
 Though gory Balfour may fume and flounce, 
 We'll empty him dry of his blatant bounce 
 
 And silly Sassenach spite. 
 
 I could scale Galway gaol 
 
 On a fox-hunting mare ; 
 I'd willingly plank it, and dress in a blanket, 
 
 And share your prison fare. 
 For one winged word from your lips 
 
 Would put my sorrow to flight, 
 Would be worth a whole cartload of Cheshire chips. 
 
 My Arabian Knight ! 
 
 My Turkish delight ! 
 Would implant in my toes and finger tips, 
 The strength of a fleet of armoured ships, 
 
 Or an acre of dynamite. 
 
 But the waves of Lough Swilly, 
 
 And Liffey's swart tide, 
 Shall be turned into suet and skilly, 
 
 And totally purified ; 
 And Tanner and Walter Long 
 
 Shall in brotherly love unite, 
 Ere you shall pardon base Balfour's wrong, 
 
 My Arabian Knight ! 
 
 My Blatherumskite ! 
 Yes, ere you shall pardon base Balfour's wrong, 
 Arabi shall chase the Queen to Hong Kong, 
 
 And reign in the Isle of Wight. 
 
POOR BLIND t WORMS. 45 
 
 poor ©lino Worms. 
 
 Poor blind worms ! 
 Cease, cease your squirms; 
 And I'll teach you how to wriggle 
 On the cheapest terms.' 
 
 Crawl to the light 
 Of your glow-worm bright, 
 And he'll lift his emerald lantern 
 In pity for your plight 
 
 Poor blind moles ! 
 Gather round your holes, 
 And to your Grand Ould Gineral 
 Attind wid all your souls. 
 
 When I give the sign 
 To your grovelling line ; 
 In your works, like very Turks, 
 Mine and countermine. 
 
 Poor blind bats ! 
 Naturals and flats ; 
 Read your Irish history 
 Like Kilkenny cats. 
 
46 THE BLARNEY BALLADE. 
 
 Had I giv'n it study, 
 When my cheeks were ruddy ; 
 Its present page were pure and sage, 
 Instead of wild and bloody. 
 
 Yes ! I'm reading my Irish history 
 Till the tome with my tears is blistery, 
 And I'm making it too, though the end of the stew, 
 I own, is an awiul mybtery. 
 
THE LEAGUE OF THE SCREW. 47 
 
 £be ^League of tbe Screw. 
 
 {To the air of " The Monks of the Screw.") 
 
 When St. Parnell at first took his coat off, 
 To found our new League of the Screw, 
 
 Says he, " Now attend, and make note of 
 The good rules I've been framing for you. 
 
 " My children, tell truth — when evasion 
 Won't prove an effective resource ; 
 And go on telling truth — till occasion 
 Is served by a contrary course. 
 
 *" Hold each Leaguer confessed as a brother, 
 In the pure light of Liberty's lamp, 
 All the rest you'll regard as none other 
 Than lepers outside of our camp. 
 
 " Then the women — you'll bless or bla'guard them, 
 Spake them civil, or boo them as fools, 
 Kiss or kick them, caress them or card them, 
 As they're faithful or false to our rules. 
 
 " Love the landlords as long as they're ready 
 To remit you a rousin' per cent. ; 
 But if to their rights they are steady, 
 Pfiy them out, why, by paying no rent. 
 
48 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 " Don't shoot them, though ! tisn't convanient, 
 At present, at laste, to our cause ; 
 A jury of course would be lanient, 
 
 But those judges play Puck wid our laws. 
 
 " Now, children, these sacred instructions 
 Just stick to as steady as stone, 
 And after the Divil's own ructions, 
 
 Holy Ireland you'll have for your own. 1 ' 
 
r.el! at first took his coat off.'' 
 
THE HOME RULE BALPHA-BET. 49 
 
 Gbe Ibome IRuIe Mpba*bet. 
 
 (About forty of the following epithets are extracted from 
 three successive issues of United Ireland?) 
 
 A stands for Arrogant Aristocrat, 
 
 B Bloody, Bomba, Base, Salisbury's Brat. 
 
 C Cold, Calumnious, Cromwell the less, 
 
 D Dastard, Despot, Denying redress. 
 
 E 's for Effeminate, Eager for lynching, 
 
 F Frantic, Fraudulent, Feminine, Flinching. 
 
 G 's the Grotesque, Gory, Ghoulish, Garotter, 
 
 H for such Hypocrites Hell should be Hotter. 
 
 I stands for Idiot, Insulting bosthoon, 
 
 L Lying, Low, Lily-livered poltroon. 
 
 M is the Murderer, Mean to the Marrow, 
 
 N Namby-pamby, Nefarious, Narrow. 
 
 O stands for Odious, Owl, Outrage-concocter, 
 
 P Pilate, Priest-hunter, Pitiful, Proctor. 
 
 R shows the Ruffian, Reviling the blameless, 
 
 S Swindler, Sybarite, Shabby yet Shameless. 
 
 T Tyrant, Torturer, Thief, Tiger-lily, 
 
 U Unabashed though Unspeakably silly. 
 
 V *s the Vile Venomous Ventriloquist, 
 
 W 's the Wriggler and closes the list. 
 
So THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Zbe Doppingetall. 
 
 A Lay of an Unloaded Rifle. 
 
 Through the wasted wilds of Ulster 
 
 Stalks an Ogre swart and tall, 
 And that Ogre's name is Dopping, 
 
 Colonel Dopping- Hepenstall. 
 Senegambia never suckled, — ■ 
 
 Senegambia, Senegal, — 
 Nay nor Niger, such a tiger 
 
 As this Dopping- Hepenstall. 
 
 Long he led the British Legions 
 From Nebraska to Nepaul, 
 
 Cleaving with colossal claymore 
 
 Recreant Russ and gibbering Gaul ; 
 
 Till remote Mongolian mothers 
 Lulled their infants' loudest squall, 
 
 Just by whispering, "Colonel Dopping, 
 Colonel Dopping-Hepenstall." 
 
 Nay, they say, the very vulture, 
 Stricken from the stars, would fall, 
 
 Lions in their lairs would languish, 
 Cattle madden in the kraal, 
 
THE DOPPINGSTALL. 51 
 
 Monkeys utter, at safe distance, 
 
 One continual caterwaul 
 At the awful apparition 
 
 Of the Dopping-Hepenstall. 
 
 Worthily was he descended 
 
 From the truculently tall, 
 Rebel-hater, Ninety-Eighter, 
 
 " Walking-gallows " Hepenstall ; 
 For that Loyalist gigantic, 
 
 Heedless of their squirm or squall, 
 Scragged the rebels round his shoulders — 
 
 Hence re-christened "Hempen-stall." 
 
 Now retired upon a pension 
 
 Quite preposterously small, 
 With his vile heart black with venom, 
 
 And his gizzard green with gall ; 
 Gun in hand, his every pocket 
 
 Stuffed with powder, shot, and ball, 
 Through the woeful wilds of Ulster 
 
 Prowled the Dopping-Hepenstall. 
 
 Till this sanguinary summons 
 
 From the depths of Donegal, 
 As he mixed his seventeenth tumbler 
 
 In the solemn evenfall, 
 Reached him : — " Wanted, with your rifle, 
 
 These poor devils to appal. 
 All expenses paid. From Balfour 
 
 To Col. Dopping-Hepenstall." 
 
S» THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Tossing off that seventeenth tumbler 
 
 At one mouthful, spoon and all, 
 Dopping bounded forth obedient 
 
 To the Bloody Balfour's call, 
 Till he burst amongst the Bobbies 
 
 Like a Samson or a Saul, 
 And they shouted " Hi ! for Dopping, 
 
 Ho! for Dopping- Hepenstall." 
 
 Agile as the goat whose silken 
 
 Hair supplies the Cashmere shawl, 
 Light he leapt upon the summit 
 
 Of a rasping rubble wall, 
 Whilst unto the midmost marrow 
 
 Of the mob, like any awl, 
 Pierced these awe-inspiring accents 
 
 Of the Dopping- Hepenstall. 
 
 "To obliquity of vision 
 
 I have ever been a thrall, 
 Yet my eye, with fine precision, 
 
 Marks one man amongst you all. 
 I shall fire with aim unerring, 
 
 Fools ! unless ye bate your brawl, 
 And disperse in thirty seconds ; " 
 
 Thus the Dopping- Hepenstall. 
 
 And because along his rifle, 
 Laid in rest athwart the wall, 
 
 Yea ! because along the barrel 
 He so squinted at them all, 
 
THE DOPPINGSTALL. 53 
 
 That each thought himself the target 
 
 Of the Colonel's cartridge ball, 
 Instantaneously they bolted 
 
 From the Dopping-Hepenstall. 
 
 Yet one rebel, one small rebel, 
 
 In the middle of the maul, 
 Shrieking forth in childish treble 
 
 On the turf was seen to fall, 
 While the ruthless rifle pointed — 
 
 Pointed at that patriot small 
 From the ruffian hands of Dopping, 
 
 Dastard Dopping-Hepenstall. 
 
 Fathers, mothers, in your thousands 
 
 Thronging this Historic Hall, 
 Picture to yourselves your children, 
 
 Pretty tots that scarce can crawl, 
 Cowering at that squint-eyed Ogre, 
 
 Aiming at them, one and all, — 
 And condemn, with execration, 
 
 Colonel Dopping-Hepenstall. 
 * * * * » 
 
 I am sorry, very sorry, 
 
 That I cannot quite recall 
 All I raved about that rifle, 
 
 Raved in yon Historic Hall ; 
 For I've this Attorney's letter 
 
 Fresh from Messrs. Flint and Ball, 
 Acting on behalf of Dopping, 
 
 Colonel Dopping-Hepenstall. > 
 
54 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Let me see — Did I say "loaded," 
 
 Or " z/«loaded," after all ? 
 Did I use the terms " blank-cartridge," 
 
 "Ball," "ball-cartridge," "cartridge-ball?* 
 If I didn't do, I clearly 
 
 Meant to mean that Doppingstall 
 Didn't mean to point a loaded 
 
 Rifle at that patriot small. 
 
 Oh confound that mad professor 
 
 And his curst election brawl, 
 I'd give anything in reason 
 
 He'd not mentioned it at all. 
 For this low Attorney's letter 
 
 Must be met by my withdraw'l 
 Of the whole charge of that rifle 
 
 Used by Dopping-Hepenstall. 
 
 PS. — Since I wrote my answer, 
 
 Eating Dopping's rifle-ball, 
 That ridiculous Romancer 
 
 Stuart has telegraphed from Youghal : 
 " Colonel Dopping no descendant 
 
 Of the Hempen-Hepenstall, 
 Very vital, only title, 
 
 ' Colonel Dopping,' after all." 
 
THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. 55 
 
 £be ©reen above tbe iReb. 
 
 For centuries we've been splittin', just splittin' wid the 
 
 spleen, 
 To see the gory Saxon Red above our sacred Green ; 
 But now we'll soon be splittin' with laughter loud instead, 
 To see the English Robber raise the Green above the Red. 
 
 ■" You're foolin' us, tomfoolin' us ! Such sight shall ne'er be 
 
 seen. 
 Shall Saxons strike their kingly Red before the crownless 
 
 Green ? 
 Oh ! if you're true, give here the clue unto that mystery 
 
 dread, 
 That runs the Green, the rebel Green, above the Royal 
 
 Red." 
 
 Well, when to Parliament that year by Parnell long foreseen, 
 
 Great '85 sint eighty-six supporters of the Green, 
 
 We all grew dumb to hear this hum from Billy Gladstone's 
 
 head — 
 His bonnet, I beg pardon, sir — "The Green above the 
 
 Red." 
 
55 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 "'Tis not," he cried, "the Irish votes I vally one traneen : 
 'Tis not that just to bate the Blue I'm bound to back the 
 
 Green. 
 Sincere repintance for the say of Irish blood we've shed, 
 Injuces me to elevate the Green above the Red. 
 
 " Sure, '(was for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone 
 
 sank serene, 
 Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green. 
 And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield nobly 
 
 bled',' 
 And they were right and we were wrong. Shame, shame 
 
 upon the Red ! 
 
 " Oh, then, in penitence profound, our Caucus we'll convene, 
 To the cry of ' Down wid Westminster, and up wid College 
 
 Green ! ' 
 And every human feelin' left, stamp down wid iron tread, 
 But that which spurs our souls to rear the Green above the 
 
 Red. 
 
 " I have visions, blessed visions, of a glorious reign of 
 
 Green, 
 With me and Mrs. Gladstone enthroned as King and 
 
 Queen, 
 Whence Unionist and Loyalist for ever shall have fled, 
 And Might be Right, and Black be White, with the Green 
 
 above the Red. 
 
THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. 57 
 
 But now the strife begins anew, and though our darlin* 
 
 Green 
 Is still in a minority, through thim Dissentients mean : 
 Come, brothers, come, for hark! that hum celestial in my 
 
 head — 
 I mane my bonnet — bids me hoist the Green above the Red. 
 
 " The blackthorn's spinnin' in my fist, I've cocked my ould 
 
 caubeen, 
 And here's my coat to trail agin in honour of the Green ; 
 One deathless Bill still holds the field, though all the rest 
 
 are dead, 
 Then follow, follow, follow, for the Green above the Red ! " 
 
58 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Mbat, Jflou? 
 
 [I notice that Mr. William O'Brien has recently made a speech — I think 
 at Birmingham — in which he stated that so great was his admiration for Lord 
 Spencer's recent conduct, that he would think it no dishonour to blacken Lord 
 Spencer's boots. It appears to be a law of Mr. William O'Brien's nature, that 
 he must always be blackening something. It used to be Lord Spencer's 
 character — it is now Lord Spencer's boots. — Mr. Balfour's speech at Staly- 
 iridge, March 24///, 1888.] 
 
 What, you, who when he stood to strike 
 
 An honest English blow, 
 Stabbed Spencer with your poisoned pike 
 
 His fighting belt below ; — 
 
 What, you, who vitriol o'er him flung 
 
 With virulent ferocity, 
 Have you, forsooth, at last found tongue 
 
 To laud his generosity ? 
 
 From this, my friend, may we infer, 
 
 That when occasion suits, 
 From blackening Balfour's character, 
 
 You'll stoop to black his boots ? 
 
PAID PATRIOTS. 59 
 
 Ipaib patriots. 
 
 (Addressed to Mr. Gladstone by the Irish Farmer.) 
 
 [The devices resorted to by Irish patriots to make a living out of the 
 present agitation are numberless. 
 
 Few are fortunate enough to be nominated Lord Mayor of Dublin, by Mr. 
 Parnell, with a salary of .£3,000 and extras. But many make nearly as hand- 
 some a living by trading on the Home Rule ticket. Doctors taking the 
 pledge are elected to snug berths by Poor Law Guardians, and are driven 
 rapidly into practice. Country solicitors find it a safe passport to business ; 
 while the Dublin lawyers, who manage the League funds, make a handsome 
 living by promoting League law suits, and feeing themselves liberally out 
 of the League funds. 
 
 The Nationalist press offers a fine field for employment for those who can 
 write ; Parliament for those who can talk ; and as for the rank and file, who 
 can neither write nor talk, a breach of the law, followed by a month's imprison 
 ment, is looked upon as a sufficient excuse for sending round the hat.] 
 
 Arrah, Gladstone me darlint, me jewel, me hearty, 
 For meself you've long leathered away like a brick, 
 
 Out of brotherly love, and a love of your party, 
 And regard for yourself, Billy Gladstone avick ! 
 
 You're the friend of the nation, — for tithes you've abolished, 
 Disestablished a Church, and the Franchise bestowed, 
 
 The Protestant garrison almost demolished, 
 Sure a bailiff is almost as rare as a toad ! 
 
 You're the friend of the farmers, for now we have fixity, 
 Rents below " Griffith's," and still in arrear, too, 
 
 Seed for half nothing — excuse our prolixity, 
 Sir, and our humble petition give ear to. 
 
60 THE BLARNEY BALLADS- 
 
 Of course you're acquainted wid Mick — I mane Mister 0' 
 
 Flaherty, west there, from Ballyporeen : 
 Cato, Lord Salisbury, Sheridan, Cicero, 
 
 By the side of our Micky weren't fit to be seen. 
 
 Wid his semaphors, tropes, alligators, skyrockets, 
 He'd draw from the stream fish widout e'er a fly, 
 
 Or tears from their socket, or pounds from our pocket, 
 Though the landlord and agent stood hungrily by. 
 
 He done us such sarvice in Tullamore cell, sir, 
 That whin he came coaxin', we promised to bear 
 
 His expinses in London — that bottomless well, sir, 
 For swallying money — 'twould make a Nun swear ! 
 
 He must be a gintleman — that we are willing, — 
 But the gintry's hotel bill is one pound a day ! 
 
 His clothes, sir, by Moses ! they cost 50^. ! 
 His washing the rent of a parish would pay. 
 
 And this is the rayson yer honour we're troubling, 
 For now that for mimbers and crimes we are taxed, 
 
 And poor rates and p61is our burthens are doubling, 
 Why, what is there left when for dues we are axed ? 
 
 And, therefore, we venture most humbly to cherish 
 A hope that your Lardship will help us to-day ; 
 
 You've abolished the Church — save us all from the parish, 
 And from Goschen's fat surplus our delegates pay. 
 
, ////ZZZZZZ- 
 
 lit i HP 
 
 ■H 1K9 ■ 
 
CAVE/ TO THE CLASSES. 61 
 
 Cave ! Zo tbe Classea. 
 
 Valentine's Day, 1888. 
 (To the tune of" Bumpers, Squire Jones.") 
 
 Ye Englishmen all, 
 Who love to be shown all your sins by the score. 
 
 Attend to the call 
 
 Of one never frighted, 
 
 But greatly delighted 
 With " blood-guilty " war ! 
 
 For I'm leadin' the masses 
 
 Agin the proud classes, 
 In a glorious crusade for Hibernian Home Rule ; 
 
 And by the Lord Harry, 
 
 Wid thrust and wid parry, 
 Their strongholds I'll carry, or call me a fool. 
 
 Ye spoilt single men, 
 
 Who endeavour to kill half your time at the Clubs 
 Of the great Upper Ten, 
 And wid other men's wives 
 Waste the rest of your lives ; 
 
 Leave your cues and your rubs, 
 
62 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 And to gain true enjoyment 
 And honest employment, 
 Off, off wid your coats in the cause of Home Rule ! 
 Quit Her Ladyship frigid 
 For bright, laughin' Brigid, 
 And iced hock for hot bumpers of " Whisky, my jew'l." 
 
 Ye poets of praise, — 
 First my lord, not contint that his brows should be bound 
 
 With the usual bays, 
 
 For his " kind heart " was set 
 
 On a gold " coronet " 
 Till wid that he was crowned ; 
 
 Then primrose-wreathed Austin, 
 
 And the fierce bard of Faustine, 
 Discontinue your satire so caustic and crule, 
 
 Or we'll boycott your lyrics, 
 
 And to drown your hysterics 
 Bid the Morrises tune up their harps for Home Rule. 
 
 Ye warriors so brave, 
 Who go harpin' all day on your beggarly pay ; 
 
 Or so rabidly rave 
 
 On short and long service, 
 
 Till I'm growing quite nervous 
 Lest your brains should give way ; — 
 
 Swallow down your vexation, 
 
 And just take your station 
 
CAVE! TO THE CLASSES. 
 
 Underneath my command on the side of Home Rule, 
 
 And by all my seven sinses 
 
 I'll promote you like princes 
 If you'll see me safe through this political dule. 
 
 Ye clergy so wise, 
 Who problems profound can dem6nstrate so clearly, 
 
 Come, open your eyes, 
 
 And shut up your jaws 
 
 From trajucin' our cause, 
 For this in your ear : 
 
 " If without any failin' 
 
 You'd wish to be scalin' 
 The steps to the throne of an Archbishop Jew'l, 
 
 Like Archbishop Croke, 
 
 Heaven's aid you'll invoke 
 On our marvellous mission of Celtic Home Rule. 
 
 Ye pedagogues pompous, 
 And stiff college Dons from the Isis and Cam, 
 
 Who from platforms would swamp us, 
 
 Oh ! you very deep, dull dogs, 
 
 Oh ! you classical bull-dogs, 
 You're not worth a Greek — drachm. 
 
 But it's best to be civil, 
 
 And if you must drivel, 
 Keep your drivelling dark in your chambers or school ; 
 
 For continued transgression 
 
 May mean supersession ; 
 So, good masters, good fellows, hands off from Home Rule ! 
 
64 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Ye who worship the stocks, 
 Manufacturers, merchants, and traders galore, 
 
 Whom, of course, it ne'er shocks 
 
 To desave a poor body 
 
 Wid shares or wid shoddy — 
 Is it you bar the door ? 
 
 If I can't keep the people 
 
 From England's church steeple, 
 Could you hope to escape, if upon the piled fuel 
 
 Round your mansion or villa 
 
 I should drop one scintilla 
 Of the mass-and-class fire I've aroused for Home Rule ? 
 
 Stout squire and stout farmer, 
 That so long have been turning, in spite of his skill, 
 
 Deaf ears to your charmer, 
 
 I can't pipe you Fair-trade, 
 
 But supposin' I played 
 On a land-relief quill, 
 
 And a state-loan tremenjous 
 
 Undertook for to lend yez, 
 Would you help me to mount the Prime Minister's stool, 
 
 And once again follow 
 
 Your grand ould Apollo, 
 Wid your throats and your votes on the road to Home Rule ? 
 
 Ye lawyers profound, 
 Of your quirks and your quibbles we're sorely in need ; 
 Arrah! won't ye come round ? 
 
CAVE! TO THE CLASSES. 65 
 
 You can prove black is white, 
 
 And defend wrong or right, 
 As you chance to be fee'd ; 
 
 You might prove green was red 
 
 To perfection instead, 
 And the land free as air, wid your arguments cool ; 
 
 And bedad ! ye'd be gainers, 
 
 For we'd give you retainers 
 By thousands, my friends, in the cause of Home Rule. 
 
 Historians and press- mates, 
 Messrs. Buckle and Dicey, and Lecky, and Froude, 
 
 And all my old mess-mates, 
 
 Before I salute ye 
 
 Wid my last Et tu Brute, 
 Can't we patch up our feud 
 
 Like the chiefs in the Iliad ? 
 
 Is there no balm in Gilead 
 To pour into the wounds of the people's poor tool ? 
 
 Not a ha'porth of whitewash 
 
 Historic, that might wash 
 This blackened soul clean from the stains of Home Rule t 
 
 Ye fox-hunters bold, 
 That no longer can follow the horn and the hound, 
 
 But are out in the cold, 
 
 With no occupation, 
 
 Through this brave combination 
 Of the farmers around : 
 
66 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Come, leave off your sulking 
 For a poultry-fund hulking, 
 
 And game-laws that'll give you the sport of MacCool 
 'Pon my conscience I'll find you, 
 If I may remind you 
 Around me to rally 
 On your pig-skins, with Tally, 
 
 Tally ho, boys ! for Gladstone, the Lord of Misrule 1 
 
THE IRISH TANNER. 67 
 
 Zbe 3risb banner. 
 
 ( With apologies to the author of " The Saxon Shilling.") 
 
 [Sung at the inaugural banquet of the Gladstone-Tanner 
 Branch of the Gaelic Athletic Association.] 
 
 Brethren of our glorious branch, 
 
 Though the blood-stained whippersnapper 
 Balfour, has locked up our staunch, 
 
 Our devoted handicapper, 
 Tightly button up your fobs, 
 
 Brand " No Rent" upon your banner; 
 Boycott Britain's brutal bobs, 
 
 But circulate the Irish Tanner. 
 
 He's a leech of skill immense, 
 
 He cures all ills that Erin's heir to ; 
 With English sovereigns he'd dispense, 
 
 Except in fees, and that I'll swear to. 
 He'd gladly crack ould England's crown, 
 
 Then vivisect her or trepan her ; 
 He'd do it, if he got her down, 
 
 Our ^Esculapian Irish Tanner. 
 
 Proud is his port, and smart his clothes, 
 
 Most courtly is his conversation ; 
 You never heard such florid oaths, 
 
 Such ornamental objurgation. 
 
<58 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Poor Peel he leads the divil's dance, — 
 Faith such an illigant cancanner 
 
 Was never seen outside of France 
 As our elastic Irish Tanner. 
 
 Into the jaws of Scotland Yard, 
 
 Our Tanner gaily penetrated 
 Sent in his card and begged them hard 
 
 That he might be incarcerated. 
 But no ! the gory ghoul in charge 
 
 Refused him in the meanest manner ; 
 So still he circulates at large, 
 
 Our own untrammelled Irish Tanner. 
 
 But " Tory Skunks " — for such is fame — 
 
 Their savage onslaughts never slacken, 
 And strive, to their eternal shame, 
 
 His fair and spotless name to blacken. 
 Envy always has a squint, 
 
 When you're close enough to scan her , 
 Sure, black and tan's a noble tint, 
 
 But nobler far is black and Tanner ! 
 
 The ould ship Unions in the slob, 
 
 Her ancient Pilot's left the tiller ; 
 She'll fall an easy prey, begob, 
 
 To such a desp'rate lady killer. 
 One lank, one lily-livered snob, 
 
 Is all the crew that's left to man her ; 
 O joyous job, to wreck and rob, 
 
 Behind our rampant Irish Tanner ! 
 
WAITING FOR THE TIDE. 6c 
 
 Malting for tbe Gibe. 
 
 ( With apologies to the Author of " Waiting for the May.") 
 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting 
 
 For the rising tide ; 
 Waiting till the wicked classes 
 Sink before the sacred masses, 
 As our Grand Old Man goes prating, 
 
 Prating far and wide. 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting 
 
 For the rising tide. 
 
 Ah ! my soul is sick with thinking 
 
 On the rising tide ; 
 Thinking how to shun the utter 
 Horror of the Irish gutter, 
 Through whose hateful slime we're slinking 
 
 With bespattered pride. 
 Ah ! my soul is sick with thinking 
 
 On the rising tide. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing 
 
 For the rising tide, 
 When our countrymen, who spurn us 
 Now as traitors, shall return us, 
 
 G. 
 
70 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 With our Home Rule banners flying 
 O'er the country side. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing 
 For the rising tide. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is wild with watching 
 
 For the rising tide ; 
 Watching for one single lucid 
 Interval in the confused 
 Counsel, and bewildered botching 
 
 Of our Grand Old Guide. 
 Ah ! my heart in vain is watching 
 
 For the rising tide. 
 
 Still I grope with groans disgusted 
 
 For the rising tide, 
 While the herd of Tory scoffers 
 Smile to see our emptying coffers, 
 Grin to hear our banks have busted — 
 
 Busted far and wide. 
 Emerald ass ! why have I trusted 
 
 To that rising tide ! 
 
"OH, THE WILD CHARGE HE MADE]" 71 
 
 "®b, tbe TOIb Cbaroe be flfcabe!" 
 
 Fragments of a Conversation in a Country House, 
 Communicated by Mr. Thomas Eaves. 
 
 [" Three parts, and in many ways the most interesting parts politically, of 
 the conversation have been left unpublished by me." — Mr. Blunts Letter, 
 Times, March 26th, 1888.] 
 
 ". . . And when already wasted by tubercular com- 
 plaints, 
 Their chiefs have gone to swell 'the sweet societies of 
 
 saints,' 
 I'll run amuck from Malin Head to Ballinskelligs Bay, 
 Feasting my eyes with fire by night and massacre by day ; 
 I'll re-enact the penal laws, I'll resurrect the Pale, 
 And with your aid obliterate the Irish Bull wholesale. 
 Against the pig, ' the unclean beast,' I'll resolutely tilt, 
 And I'll force the population to adopt the Highland kilt. 
 I'll introduce the haggis, I'll abolish Irish stew, 
 And I'll scalp each rogue who dares to brogue or drink of 
 
 mountain- dew. 
 I'll root the shamrock from the sod, I'll re-import the snake, 
 I'll raze the peaks from off the Reeks, and drain Killarney's 
 lake. 
 
72 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 I'll pulverize the Blarney Stone, I'll gouge out Ireland's Eye, 
 And ship the Giant's Causeway off to grace the Isle of Skye. 
 And when I've worked my wicked will, 'mid shrieks of 
 
 ghoulish glee, 
 I'll blast the island from its base, I'll tow it out to sea; 
 And, acting on a hint I've had from crafty Mr. Goschen, 
 Appropriate the sinking fund to drown it in mid-ocean ; 
 That Erin's exiles, homeward bound, across the surging 
 
 main 
 For Innisfail's familiar shores, may look and look in vain." 
 
" He has r one voice as soft as the coo of a dove." 
 
MR. ORATOR D- 
 
 fll>r. ©rator 3D- 
 
 (With apologies to the shade of Moore.) 
 
 Mr. Orator D (now there's no use in guessing !) 
 
 Like Janus of old has a double-faced head : 
 With one here in England he gives us his blessing, 
 With the other in Ireland he wishes us dead. 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Orator D 
 
 One. face is enough for a plain man like me. 
 
 He has one voice as soft as the coo of a dove, 
 
 The other is harsh as the caw of a crow ; 
 The one mutters hatred, the other sings love, 
 
 From sol up in alt to the D down below. 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Orator D 
 
 One voice is enough for a plain man like me. 
 
 In his falsetto voice he cries " Ireland a Nation ! " 
 
 And then with his double tongue " No Separation ! " 
 A Whig once on hearing the orator say, 
 
 " I'm against Separation," cried " Which of you, pray ? 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Orator D 
 
 One country's enough for a plain man like me. 
 
74 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Coming home late at night from a meeting proclaimed, 
 
 He was run into gaol, at the suit of the Queen, 
 And as the door shut, the last words he exclaimed, 
 
 Were " Gladstone for ever ! " and " God save the Green ! " 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Orator D 
 
 One cry is enough for a plain man like me. 
 
 And when he was tried, the Crimes Act for evading, 
 
 And for wearing the green on the Jubilee day ; 
 Said the Judge, " You shall wear, as you like masquerading, 
 " A new suit, for two months, but this time 'twill be grey." 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Orator D 
 
 One suit is enough for a poor man like me. 
 
 From his cold prison cell, so gloomy and bare, 
 
 " Help me out ! " he exclaimed, with a curse and a prayer. 
 " Help you out ! " cried John Bull, " Oh my ! what a pother ! 
 Why there's two of you there, can't you help one 
 another!" 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Orator D 
 
 Two months aren't enough for such martyrs as ye ! 
 
The other is harsh as the caw of a crow." 
 
THE NEW GUY FAWKES. 75 
 
 Zbz "Mew 6\\y ffawfces. 
 
 I sing the doleful Thragedy, 
 
 Guy Fawkes, the Prince of Sinisters, 
 Who once blew up the Parlymint, 
 
 The king and all his ministers. 
 That is, he would have blown 'em up, 
 
 For Guy had all the effronthery, 
 To sind each single mimber back, 
 
 In that way to the Counthery. 
 
 He snaked into the dismal vault, 
 
 At the witchin' time o' night, boys ; 
 Resolved to fire his divilish train 
 
 Of Yankee dynamite, boys. 
 That is, he would have used that shtuff, 
 
 And solely was previnted, 
 'Cos dynamite in James's time, 
 
 Ye see, was not invinted. 
 
 But a little bird let dthrop a word, 
 
 To James, that very sly fox, 
 So he had 'em search the aforesaid vault, 
 
 And there they found poor Guy Fawkea 
 A score or so of lively squibs 
 
 Wor peepin' from his pockets, 
 And a Catherine wheel was round his ribs, 
 
 And a brace of big sky-rockets. 
 
76 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 But Serjeant Cox he collared him, 
 
 Combustibles and all, sir, 
 And ran him clane away to quad, 
 
 Right through Westminster Hall, sir. 
 That is, he would have done that deed 
 
 Of gunpowder and glory, 
 But Cox, d'ye see, he didn't live 
 
 Till the reign of Queen Victori'. 
 
 For thrial they committed Guy, 
 
 Remandin' and remandin' him, 
 For more conclusive evidence, 
 
 Till there wasn't any standin' 'em ; 
 And they'd not have found the missin' link 
 
 They needed to convict him, 
 If he hadn't coughed the time-fuse up, 
 
 That by swallying down he'd thricked 'em. 
 
 The Judge he sentenced him to death ; 
 
 But they sent him a reprieve, sir, 
 And in two years' time they let Guy out, 
 
 On a quiet ticket of leave, sir. 
 That is, they would have done all this 
 
 Some three odd centuries later, 
 But, as it was, they wint and tuk, 
 
 And hung him for a thraitor. 
 
THE PROMISE-BREACHES. 77 
 
 ftbe promfse^Breadbes. 
 
 (To the air of " Purty Molly Brallaghan.") 
 
 Ah, now did you never hear of handsome Bill O'Brien, 
 
 ma'am ? 
 Troth, since I lost him, it's like a storm I'm sighin', ma'am ; 
 Not a lad in the land his place for me's supplyin', ma'am, — 
 
 Ah, how could he lave me all alone for to die ? 
 The hole where my heart was ye might aisy rowl a turnip in, 
 For he's tuk it right away and forgotten to send it back agin, 
 And widout it how'll I ever have a lodgin' to let for single 
 men, 
 
 In my poor empty bosom, till the hour that I die ? 
 
 Well I remember as I read from the weekly Freeman, ma'am, 
 Wid my feet on the fender, I allamost started screamin', 
 
 ma'am, 
 To find that Misther Balfour, that blood-stained English 
 
 demon, ma'am, 
 Had taken Billy's clothes away and left him in gaol to die. 
 Though 'twas November weather, I cut up my best warm 
 
 petticoat, 
 To make my poor imprisoned love a waistcoat and a pretty 
 
 coat, 
 And a pair of — savin' your presence ! — lovely breeches his 
 
 woes to mitigate, — 
 Oh, after that, to lave me alone for to die ! 
 
7 S THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 By Parcel Post I sent them him through a turnkey friend at 
 
 Tullamore, 
 Who smuggled them successfully to Billy under the bolted 
 
 door, 
 And I got a halfpenny postcard in acknowledgment, and 
 
 nothing more, 
 But never since that day on Bill have I even sot my eye. 
 You know it's Leap Year, and they say there's scarcely a 
 
 spinster, ma'am, 
 But is poppin' him the question from Lanark away to Lein- 
 
 ster, ma'am, 
 And there isn't a wealthy widow but would wed wid him at 
 
 Westminster, ma'am, 
 And wid all that competition, what sort of a chance 
 
 have I ? 
 Off wid my tale to Archbishop Croke himself I ran, 
 And then I consulted wid ex- Lord Mayor T. D. Sullivan, 
 He tould me promise-breaches had been ever since the world 
 
 began, 
 Now I had but the one pair, and they're walkin' on my 
 
 boy ! 
 Arrah ! what could he mane ma'am ? or what would you 
 
 advise me to ? 
 Must my Blarney bags to Billy go ? In troth I'm bothered 
 
 what to do, — 
 I can't afford to lose both my heart and my breeches too. 
 Yet what does it matter, when I only care to die ? 
 
" Handsome Bill O'Brien." 
 
AN IRISH MERRY-GO-ROUND. 79 
 
 Hn 3risb flDerr^go^rounfc. 
 
 (To the Tune of " Come, Follow.") 
 
 " Come, follow, follow, follow, to the hustings follow me ! " 
 "Why should we follow, follow, follow, why to the hustings 
 
 follow ye ? '' 
 " To bate the Blue and Green together with our Grand 
 
 Majoritee." 
 
 " Come, swallow, swallow, swallow my Mudlothian speech wid 
 
 me ! 
 " Why should we swallow, swallow, swallow your Mudlothian 
 
 speech wid ye ? " 
 " 'Cos the Blue and Green have bate us, don't you, don't you, 
 
 don't you see ? " 
 
 " Come, holloa, holloa, holloa at the hustings, boys, wid me ! " 
 
 " What shall we holloa, holloa, holloa, at the hustings, sure, 
 
 wid ye ? " 
 
 " England's need is Ireland freed, as every man of sense can 
 
 see! 
 
 1 
 t 
 
 " Come, compatriots, come and wallow, wallow fast and 
 
 loose wid me ! " 
 " Where shall we wallow, where shall we wallow, wallow fast 
 
 and loose wid ye ? " 
 " In the green immortal Mud-bath of the savoury Irish sea!" 
 
 H 
 
So THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 " No ! by Plutarch and Phaybus Apollo niver agin we'll 
 
 follow ye. 
 We dishtinctly refuse to holloa that shtuff about settin' Ould 
 
 Ireland free. 
 We decline wid contimpt our pledges to swallow, and to 
 
 Misther Parnell to bend the knee. 
 And in your Mud-bath green to wallow we object, we object 
 
 teetotallee ; 
 For we've grown so giddy from your gyrations, ' gyrate by 
 
 yourself from this out ' say we." 
 
LET ERIN RETURN TO THE DA YS OF OLD. 81 
 
 Xet i£rtn 'Return to tbe Da^s of ©l&. 
 
 Let Erin return to the days of old, 
 
 When she drew the sword — not the long bow ; 
 Ere Malachi's matchless collar of gold 
 
 Was collared by General Strongbow ; 
 And behind the brand-new presentation axe 
 
 Of the pure-souled Prince of Hawarden, 
 Wipe out upon Ulster's fields of flax 
 
 The stain of " The Cabbage Garden." 
 
 Till one of these days, as Saunderson strays, 
 
 With his hands in his breeches' pockets, 
 He shall mark with amaze Belfast set ablaze — • 
 
 Set ablaze by our Congreve rockets ; 
 Confess that his ruffianly record is ripe, 
 
 Look his last on Ulidia's fallows, 
 And one final joke put into our pipe 
 
 As he climbs Kilmainham gallows. 
 
 " See this hempen article round my neck, 
 
 Manufactured for tight-rope capers ; 
 Well, out of poor Saunderson's fortune's wreck, — 
 
 Please copy this, Evening Papers — 
 An acre of arable land he devotes, 
 
 And a dole of a thousand dollars, 
 For supplying the Home Rule Parliament's throats 
 
 With these genuine Gladstone collars." 
 
&2 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 £be Xegaq?. 
 
 Whenever I slip from this mortal scene, 
 
 Oh, bear this gamp to my Morley dear ; 
 Tell him that lately I dyed it green, 
 
 Of the liveliest hue, my heart to cheer. 
 Bid him not shed one tear of sorrow 
 
 To sully its shoddy, so emerald bright ; 
 And no other umbrella to beg or borrow, 
 
 Or mistake for his own, on a rainy night. 
 
 When upas trees I can fell no more, 
 
 This ancient axe to St. Stephen's bear ; 
 Hang it up where I sat before, 
 
 Like Damocles' sword, by a lock of my hair. 
 Then, should any Tory, when I'm in glory, 
 
 Presume to reflect on its master's fame, 
 Let it fall, and slice from his shoulders gory 
 
 The traitor's head, with one flash of flame ! 
 
 Keep this pot, with a faith unswerving, 
 
 To grace your revels when I'm at rest ; 
 It is full of the fruit, well worth preserving, 
 
 Of a long, long life of labour blest. 
 Yet, leave it untouched, like the cobbler's bottle, 
 
 As a warning of what I was and am ; 
 For Heaven preserve the tongue or throttle 
 
 That tackles that old green Irish Jam! 
 
LINES UPON LYIN\ 83 
 
 Xlnes upon X^in'. 
 
 [After Sheridan.) 
 
 By an M.P. 
 
 \In confidence to his wife.~\ 
 
 I tell the truth while I am able ; 
 
 Still, I confess to many a fable. 
 
 But who, with Home Rule close in view, 
 
 Would lose it for a lie or two ? 
 
 Nay, do not curl your pretty lip, 
 
 Lies are the life of statesmanship. 
 
 When I'm in trouble, I deny 
 
 The facts, and say " It's all a lie." 
 
 If half my speeches were but true, 
 
 If what I swOre that I would do, 
 
 I always stuck to, through and through, 
 
 The party's prospects would be blue. 
 
 No ! in strict confidence, believe, 
 
 For once I swear I'll not deceive — 
 
 When once the masses can descry 
 
 The difference 'twixt Truth and Lie, 
 
 Wisdom and folly, black and white, 
 
 Better and worse, and wrong and right ; 
 
«4 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Then only, then, can Heaven decree 
 
 That I an honest man shall be. 
 
 And now, to make my meaning clear, 
 
 A whispered word, love, in your ear : — 
 
 While voters innocently find 
 
 My honied falsehoods to their mind ; 
 
 Or while they're false, and I am blind ;- 
 
 So long I hold my place secure, 
 
 And of my services they're sure : 
 
 But when each learns to scorn deceit, 
 
 They lose my aid, and I my seat. 
 
1HE ANTI-ENGLISH ENGLISHMAN. 85 
 
 ftbe HnttaBnglteb jenglisbntan. 
 
 From Polar seas to torrid climes, 
 
 Where'er the trace of man is found, 
 What common feeling marks our kind, 
 
 And sanctifies each spot of ground ? 
 What virtue in the human heart 
 
 The proudest tribute can command ? 
 The dearest, purest, holiest, best, 
 
 The lasting love of Fatherland. * 
 
 Then who is he who would deface 
 
 The scutcheon of his country's fame ? 
 Who calls each conquest a disgrace, 
 
 Each victory the veriest shame ? 
 One wretch alone on earth you'll meet, 
 
 Though all the universe you scan, 
 So steeped in treason and deceit, — ■ 
 
 The Anti-English Englishman. 
 
 Where'er he goes he subtly sows 
 The dragon-teeth of civil strife ; 
 
 Each hidden smart with deadly art 
 He probes anew to festering life. 
 
 * From Harkan's " Anti-Irish Irishman." 
 
86 THE BLARNEY BALLADS. 
 
 Were England stripped of power, and laid 
 
 Beneath a universal ban, 
 He'd meet the prospect undismayed, — 
 
 The Anti-English Englishman. 
 
 Where treason teems and hate is hot, 
 
 He finds his true, his native soil, 
 And keeps the rank Rebellion-pot 
 
 For ever on the over-boil. 
 What, with our deadliest foemen close, 
 
 And charge triumphant in our van ? 
 He'd rather fly with England's foes, — 
 
 The Anti-English Englishman. 
 
 'Tis his unnatural task to breach 
 
 His country's walls and lay them low, 
 And then in rounded phrase to preach 
 
 Submission to a savage foe. 
 Majuba's height was his delight, 
 
 That peace-at-all-price partisan ; 
 He'd have us yield in every field, — 
 
 The Anti-English Englishman. 
 
 The anarchist from o'er the wave 
 
 Steered his fell bark to Erin's beach, 
 And, leagued with every native knave, 
 
 Preyed on her life-blood like a leech. 
 Who clasped that parricidal hand ? 
 
 Who all the recreant crew outran ? 
 The blackest of that baneful band, — - 
 
 The Anti-English Englishman. 
 
THE ANTI-ENGLISH ENGLISHMAN. 87 
 
 Yet, Erin, hope ! Thy tyrant's reign 
 
 Is reeling at the righteous blast, 
 The monstrous shadows flee amain, 
 
 The judgment day is dawning fast. 
 Oh ! then shall Heav'n's high wrath consume 
 
 With all his misbegotten clan, 
 O'erwhelmed in dark untimely doom, 
 
 The Anti-English Englishman.