And they sniffed their stale loaves, and they begged for some beer,
And they swore at their mattrasses rugged and brown.
For rogues who rant in prison must weep,
And planks are knotty, and treadmills are steep,
Though Freedom’s echoes be sounding.
Three cropped heads fresh from the barber’s shears,
Three bowls of thin gruel as salt as the sea,
Three curses on Parnell, three strong men in tears,
“Me boys, ye are marthers to Fradom!” says he.
For fools must smart, and victims must weep,