Like the breath of a Croker o’er eloquence blowing,
To hush all its music, and render it tame.
But yet when to Parliament they are returning,
There will still be amongst both the young and the old,
Some who with disgust most indignantly burning,
Will weep when they think how thy freedom was sold
The new made elector whene’er he advances,
To vote on some Irish Electoral day,
Will think of thy fate, till forgetting his franchise,
He mournfully turns from the poll-booth away.