That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And bhoys who love the moon.
’Twas but to guard these hours of shade
That the Coercion Bill was made;
Let not its penal clauses glowing
Set all mine honest friends agoing.
Oh! stay,—oh! stay,—
Law so seldom weaves a chain
Like this, so tight, that oh! ’tis plain