Yes--sweeter to this Tory soul
Than all such pests, from pole to pole,
Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got
By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;"
And thanks to practice on that land
I stir it with a master-hand.
Again thou'lt see, when forth have gone
The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!"
How Caravats and Shanavests
Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,
With all their merry moonlight brothers,
To whom the Church (_step_-dame to others)
Hath been the best of nursing mothers.
Again o'er Erin's rich domain
Shall Rockites and right reverends reign;
And both, exempt from vulgar toil,
Between them share that titheful soil;
Puzzling ambition _which_ to climb at,
The post of Captain, or of Primate.
And so, long life to Church and Co.--
Hurrah for mischief!--here we go.
EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.
Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,--
But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we,
Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,
Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private--
Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,
Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet,
But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her
To love more than meat, drink, or clothing--_hot water_.
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