No more at midnight’s melancholy stroke
Shall we revel in our customary fun
Of scaring all the humble women folk
In sarchin’ for the shadow of a gun.
There’s an ind to legal riot, they may sleep in peace an’ quiet,
An’ their slumbers niver more will be annoyed;
We’re dejected an’ neglected, an’ we cannot be expected
To be happy after banished Clifford Lloyd!
No more cartridges of buckshot we desire,
’Tis a burden whin we’re not allowed to use it,
An’ our batons may be thrown into the fire—
We may see a peasant’s head an’ dar not bruise it,
The girls may take to coortin’ an’ the boys resume their spoortin’,
An’ life by common people be enjoyed,
In contint, without lamint, since to Africa they’ve sint
That inimy of laughter, Clifford Lloyd!
Misther Healy, you have always been unkind.
But we didn’t think you positively cruel
Till we noticed how you changed ould Gladstone’s mind,
And made him sind away our darlin’ jewel.
Our feelins are diminted an’ our souls are discontinted,
Troth! we’re altogether ruined an’ destroyed,
We’re wailin’ an’ we’re quailin’ and we’re failin’ since the sailin’
Of that father of coercion, Clifford Lloyd!
CLAUSE TWENTY-SIX.
(A COTTER’S REVERY ON THE EMIGRATION CLAUSE OF THE LAND ACT.)
I’ve been towld there’s a chance in the distance,
For struggling poor sowls like myself,
To brighten our dreary existence,
An’ even to gather some pelf,
In a land where the soil is but waitin’
The wooin’ of shovels an’ picks
That we’ll take whin we’re all emigratin’
To fortune by Clause Twenty-six.
It’s hard and it’s sad to be hurried
Away from the strings of my life—
From the spot where my mother lies buried,
The place where I coorted my wife.
Sweet home of my birth, to forsake you,
My conscience remorsefully pricks—
I can’t tell if to lave or to take you,
Bewilderin’ Clause Twenty-six.
For it’s rather too bitther my fate is,
When my luck like a stranger goes by,
When blight settles down on the praties,
An’ the cow that I trusted turns dry;
Whin the turf is too damp to be fuel,
An’, crouched o’er a handful of sticks,
I curse you, misfortune so cruel,
An’ pray for you, Clause Twenty-six.
Whin the rain through the thatch finds a way in,
Till we sleep in a cheerless cowld bath;
Whin the hens are teetotal at layin’,
An’ the pig is as thin as a lath,
Whin the childer are pinin’ an’ ailin’,
An’ losin’ their mirth an’ their tricks—
Oh, I long for the ship to be sailin’
That’s chartered by Clause Twenty-six.
And often at night I’ve a notion,
Whilst hungry they’re lyin’ in bed,
In that plintiful land o’er the ocean
They wouldn’t be cryin’ for bread;
They might even an odd pat of butther
Along with their stirabout mix;
Oh, my heart is too full for to utter
Its thoughts of you, Clause Twenty-six.
To see the health-roses assimble
On the cheeks of my boys, an’ the curls
Once again in the bright mornin’ trimble
With the innocent laugh of my girls;
An’ to feel that herself would be aisy,
Nor frettin’ at trouble or fix.
Mavrone! but I’m mighty nigh crazy
Considerin’ Clause Twenty-six.