ON THE DUBLIN EXHIBITION.
Oh Emerald Isle, brightest pearl of the ocean,
First flower of the earth, on thy newly-horn wings
Soar up to the sky, with triumphant emotion,
Whilst thou sittest, receiving the homage of kings.
Raise, Erin, thy brow, which no longer is clouded
And seared by the cold brand of chilling neglect;
Stand forth in the garb of festivity shrouded
As thy sons and thy daughters, fair maiden, expect.
Exchanging thy widowhood's lonely condition
For the splendour and state of a blushing young bride,
Preside, unabashed, o'er thy Great Exhibition,
Thy heart humbly swelling with glory and pride.
Yes, Ireland, thy lap filled with all the world's riches,
Of thy shirt-sleeves the elbows, gone ragged of yore,
Shall no longer hang out at the knees of thy breeches,
And the toes of thy brogues out at heel go no more.
Too long has the Demon of fell agitation,
By the dark torch of discord diffused o'er the land,
Created a stir, which has caused a stagnation,
Bringing business, and everything else, to a stand.
Away with Brigades—they're all mighty bad bargains;
Away with those heads that are nothing but tails,
The footsteps for you, boys, to follow, are Dargan's:
And don't proceed backwards in Dr. Machale's!