ARRAH WHAT DOES HE MANE AT ALL?
Scene. The White House.
ULYSSES ASLEEP. CUBA, ROONEY, AND FISH OUTSIDE ON THE LOBBY.
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ROONEY Loquitur.
ULYSSES asthore! Good lord, don't he snore! ULYSSES! ULYSSES, my boy! There's company here, must see you, me dear, In spite of this Spanish kill-joy. This Minister FISH, who, had he his wish, Wud put your ould ROONEY down-stairs. Ay, faith if he dar, but betther by far The sinner was sayin' his pray'rs. Arrah what does he mane at all? Now, ULICK S. GRANT, it's your own self I want, To patiently listen, mavrone, To what I've to say, in a fatherly way, As if you wor child ov my own. For shure is it time, in prose or in rhyme, That somebody spoke up, who dar'. ULYSSES awake! for Liberty's sake, It's braykin our hearts you are. Arrah what do you mane at all? Och, wirrasthrue vo! it's bitther to know The work that goes an in your name; The murdher an' ruin, that others are doin' Whilst you have to showlder the shame! The grief that is ours, whin you, by the Pow'rs, Seem traytin it all like a joke, Like NAYRO, the thief, whin Room was in grief, That fiddled away in the smoke! Arrah what do you mane at all? Och, wake up, ochone! Your innimies groan The words that cut deep as a sword: "He's greedy for goold, an by its slaves rooled ULYSSES is false to his word. See poor Cuba there, all tatthered and bare; For months at his doore she has stud; Not a word he replies to her sobs or her sighs, Nor cares for her tears or her blood! Arrah what does he mane at all?" Musha, what's that you say? "Sind the ould fool away." I'm disturbin' your rest wid my prate; There's Minister FISH, to consult if I wish, Who attinds to all matthers of state. An' Cuba, she too, wid her hulabaloo, May just as well bundle an' go; You won't hear us now, wid our murtherin row, You'll sleep it out whether or no! Arrah what do we mane at all? Ah! then, by my sowl, this thratemint is foul— To put your best frinds to the blush; An' wor you sinsare, in what you sed there We'd tie up your whistle, my thrush! But ULICK, machree, you can't desave me, By sayin' the word you don't mane; Or make her beleeve who stands at me sleeve, In FISH an' his Castles in Spane. Arrah what do you mane at all? 'Tis late in the day to talk in that way; We've had ministhers dishes galore, An' laste to my taste, at the blundherin faste, The sauce ov that fish one, asthore. No, ULICK, alan! the work that's in han' Must be done by yourself, if at all. Your cooks, by my troth, are burnin' the broth, We smell it out here in the hall! Arrah what do you mane at all? No, ULICK, my boy, rise up to our joy, An' make a clane sweep ov the crowd Of tinkerin tools, an' blundherin fools, That put your wits undher a cloud. Rise up in your might, an' sthrike for the right! Let England an' Spain hear us talk; Give FISH his conjay, an' ROONEY will stay; You'll then see who's cock ov the walk! Arrah what do you mane at all? Lave Britain alone; if she won't pay, mavrone, She's puttin' her head into debt. If I know the books, the way the thing looks, She'll pay us, wid intherest, yet! Ay, faith he did say, so wise in his day— That noble ould Graycian, PHILANDER— That sauce for the goose, if well kept for use, Was just as good sauce for the gandher! Arrah what did he mane at all? But Spain, the ould wulf, for her tricks in the Gulf, Her robbery, murdher, and worse, Her debt, she must see, is put down C.O.D., Wid Cuba relaysed from her curse. Ay, FISH, you may sweat, an' SUMNER may threat, An' burst his crack'd head in the row; The People have spoke, that's fire an' not smoke! An' this must be finished, an' now. Arrah what do you mane at all? Och! ULICK, awake, for Liberty's sake! If not for your ROONEY, asthore; The Godiss is here, but thrimbles wid fear Ov the cowld-blooded Thing at the doore. She sez that your name a by-word of shame Will be to the nations onborn, If you lie there anmov'd whilst the flag that you lov'd Is flouted by Spaniards wid scorn. Arrah what do you mane at all? She sez, an' wid grief, her love for the chief, That fought neath her bannir so long, Will turn into hate, that will cling to the fate Ov him who now sides wid the wrong. She sez ov all woes that misery knows, The grief ov the wronger's the worst Who houlds back his ban' from a sufferin' lan' An' laves her to tyrants accurs'd! Arrah what do you mane at all? Ah! that stirs your blood; I thought that it wud. Your rizin', me bouchal; it's done! Go on wid your pray'rs! I'm kickin' down-stairs This ould Spanish mack'rel, for fun. Sweet Liberty here, and Cuba, my dear! You'll stay for the bite an' the sup? An' pardon my joy; since I've woke up the boy I don't know what ind ov me's up! Arrah what did he mane at all? |