Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds,
Have voices—tongues to cry aloud for me.
Europe has slaves—allies—kings—armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.
XVII.
Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate,
In honest simple verse, this song to you.
And if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
'Tis that I still retain my "buff and blue";
My politics as yet are all to educate: