You are old, Father Will—one might almost expect
That your head was as sage as it’s hoary;
Yet your blunders are easy for babes to detect,
And your wits have, it seems, gone to glory.
You preached upon “Peace,” and your text wouldn’t mar
By applying Coercion to “Pat”;
Yet you’d turn a back somersault, go in for war;
Pray, what is the reason of that?
Of the Empire’s integrity, careless as well
As your own, you must needs turn Home-Rule-ish,