There came an ex-Premier from England to Erin,
If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill.
From his country he came in the hope of repairing
Some errors whose memory clings to him still.
Can we doubt that e’en now, as he traversed the ocean,
His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion
The day when, to show to the priests his devotion,
He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh?
O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger,
O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee.