O'BRIEN'S BREECHES.
(Humbly imitated from Henry Luttrel's "Burnham Beeches.")
A Bard, dear Muse, who pluck would sing,
Your friendly aid beseeches.
Help me to touch the lyric string
On—brave O'Brien's breeches!
What though the splendour of my lines
To Swinburne's height ne'er reaches?
The theme, if not the thrummer, shines;
That theme's—O'Brien's breeches!
They wouldn't let O'Brien talk,
Or make "seditious" speeches.
They quodded him, his plans to baulk,
And—tried to bag his breeches!
But brave O'Brien's blood did burn
(Say, who his pluck impeaches?)
He up and swore in accents stern,
"I won't—wear convict breeches!"
Those gaolers deep about him hung,
They stuck to him like leeches.
But he, the eloquent of tongue,
Stuck to—O'Brien's breeches!
If "sermons be in stones," I'll bet
A prison patience teaches.
The prisoner to bed must get;
They watched—and boned his breeches!
The captive of the cold complains,
His breechless bones it reaches.
But yield? No, rather he remains
In bed—without his breeches!
In vain the prison-clothes they show;
Badge of dishonour each is.
Patriots prefer to lie below
Bed-clothes—without their breeches!
But friends unto the dungeon hie,
No gaoler marks (or peaches),
They hand O'Brien, on the sly,
Another pair of breeches!
Black Balfour's myrmidons are fooled!
A lesson high this teaches:
A plucky people is not ruled
By—stealing patriot's breeches!
Brian Boru they sang of yore,
But when her goal she reaches,
Erin will sing, from shore to shore,
O'Brien—and his breeches!
Her bards will praise the patriot true,
His long and fiery speeches,
His bearding Balfour's brutal crew;
But, above all,—his breeches!
Oh, ne'er may the potheen pass round
But—Erin so beseeches—
The Isle may with one theme resound,—
O'Brien—and his breeches!
Hold! Though I'd fain be jingling on,
One rhyme, experience teaches,
You can't ring on for aye! I've done.
Farewell, O'Brien's breeches!