But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings--
Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings--
Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,
I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks
With age's sourest politics;
The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall,
Both duly mixt, and matchless all;
A compound naught in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!
Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,
Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee--
No livelier lackey could they find thee.
And, Goddess, as I'm well aware,
So mischief's _done_, you care not _where_,
I own, 'twill most _my_ fancy tickle
In Paddyland to play the Pickle;
Having got credit for inventing
A new, brisk method of tormenting--
A way they call the Stanley fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
So neat it hits the mixture due
Of injury and insult too;
So legibly it bears upon't
The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.
Ireland, we're told, means the land of _Ire_;
And _why_ she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley.
Already in the breeze I scent
The whiff of coming devilment;
Of strife, to me more stirring far
Than the Opium or the Sulphur war,
Or any such drug ferments are.
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