Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood,
But "_You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;_"
While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,
Shall answer, like true _Irish_ echoes, "We are!"
And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it,
Still the echoes may quote _Law_ authority for it,
And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion
So he, in the end, touches cash "for the _opinion_."
But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now,
Being busy in helping these Lords thro' their __row_.
They're bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin,
They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.
[1] The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.
POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.
In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,
Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend;
We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred,
And wept for the husband, the father and friend.
Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,
And generous indeed were the tears that we shed,
When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done,
And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.
Even now if one harsher emotion intrude,
'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state,
Had known what he was--and, content to be _good_,
Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be _great_.
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