And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we mournfully looked on the face of the dead,
And thought of the coming morrow.
We thought as they tumbled him into his bed,
And laid him at rest on his pillow,
That the Radical soon would step over our head,
And we be turned out by the bill—oh!
Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on,