From slimy cell and dungeon damp
Bring forth our prisoned men;
Gather, ye braves, from every camp,
To cheer them home again.
What though to-day they did not bleed
To share our victory,
We reap the harvest of their seed,
So victors still they be;
From faction they our people freed,
And now our land is free.
Oh, Christmas bells of London, wake
The city with your strain;
Your loudest music cannot break
The felon’s rest again.
His dream is o’er; the moonbeams gone,
Nor left a single ray,
For all that but this moment shone
Retreat before the day;
But that last, loving, pitying one
Has borne his soul away.
“Died in his cell”—and nothing more;
’Twas all his comrades heard;
But of the dream he had before
He died,—oh, not a word!
They found him on the coarse straw bed,
A smile upon his face,
And, “Number 28 found dead,”
Was whispered round the place;
And the jail doctor shook his head
And wondered at the case!
THE SPEAKER’S COMPLAINT.[C]
AN earthquake is scarcely a joyous event,
’Tis not pleasant to fall from a steeple,
There is not much fun in recovering rent
Where the Land League has hold of the people;
But upheaval of earth
Is good reason for mirth,
’Tis jolly o’er Connaught’s bleak border,
Compared to a seat
Where the Commoners meet
When Mulligan rises to order.
A touch of the measles, neuralgia’s pain,
Catarrhic attacks are not charming,
There are even some Benedicts stoutly maintain
That a bad-tempered woman’s alarming.
Should close diagnosis
Reveal your probocis
To be of your weakness recorder,
You might foolishly curse;
But it’s very much worse
When Mulligan rises to order.
The whoop of a Zulu, the shriek of a shell,
A cats’ chorus in conference meeting,
Are music compared to the agonized yell
Of rage and derision, his greeting;
You go home to your bed
With a pain in your head,
By your pillow stands nightmare a warder;
Your sleep is a blight,
Your comfort takes flight,
Your breathing is tight,
You scratch and you bite,
Or you wake with affright
As you dream through the night
That Mulligan rises to order!
ERIN MACHREE (1798).
THE sun had gone down in a halo of glory,
And cast, as it vanished, one lingering ray
On the dark field of battle where, silent and gory,
The brave who had fallen for fatherland lay.
Then close round the fires where the weary were sleeping,
And the angel of death his stern vigil was keeping,
We gathered together in sorrow and weeping
For the brave who had fallen for Erin Machree!