THE MESSENGER OF PEACE.
(With apologies to the Shade of the Author of “Al Aarof.”)
[I have read ... that I have come to Ulster to revive religious bigotry, to rekindle the embers of party strife, and to revive ancient feuds which are now in a fair way to be forgotten. I can assure you that these are not the objects which I propose to myself. (Laughter.)—Report of Mr. Chamberlain’s Speech in Belfast.]
Erin’s Guardian Angel sings:—
I came (by the steamer)
A cross the wild spray.
No bigot, no dreamer,
To moon time away.
Bright lingers to ponder,
And make tart replies;
But I come, from yonder,
Drawn down from the skies.
With love I am laden,
Peace sits on my brow.
No, sweet Ulster maiden,
My game is not row!
Arise! from your dreaming,
In bright Orange bowers,
To duties beseeming,
Your fame and past powers.
My presence expresses
My fondness for you;
(My game no one guesses,
They read it askew)
Oh, how without you, love,
Can Ireland be blest?
You’re loyal, you’re true, love,
Mad traitors the rest.
I shake from my wing
Each hindering thing.
The black Parnellite
Would weigh down my flight.
The G. O. M.’s messes,
I leave them apart,
His lures and his jesses,
His tricks and his art.
W. G.! W. G.! Ah!
My old artful one,
You had an idea
With you I should run.
No! it is my will
On the breezes to toss
At caprice, or be still
Like a lone albatross.
Daring duckling? That’s past!
Stormy petrel? That’s flown!
I’m a halcyon at last,
A new rôle,—and my own!
W. G. Ah! Whoever
Thine “items” may be,
For ever I sever
My fortunes from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In sophistical sleep,
But the angel that flies
Will thy vigilance keep?
O Walker! (Again
A rhetorical flower
From thy full-teeming brain!)
I have passed a brief hour
In those same cipherings
Which you fudge—let that pass!
But my own view of things
Is not modell’d, alas!
On yours—none of the clearest—
But then, that’s your way—
’Tis one of the queerest;
Do you find it pay?
Ah! love moved the smiles
That beamed forth on my rest
On the greenest of Isles.
Its Scotch natives are best,
For they have in their keeping
Its wealth and its trade,
And Sedition, unsleeping,
Has spoilt, I’m afraid,
The true Pat of the Island.
He burns to be free,
His bosom holds guile, and
His bonnet a bee.
Go to! Let them slumber,
The Home-Ruling lot
Are not the huge number
They tell us—that’s rot!
I came to awaken,
An Angel of Peace!
I’m bound to be taken
For such ere I cease.
Parnell’s spell makes Pat slumber,
Its witchery is test,
And your Orange-host’s number
Must manage the rest!