For the House is the only Heaven I know
Though they say I make it a Hell below,
Where I’ll play the lyre
And kindle its ire,
Till oblivion swallows the law defier.
From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet.
By Ion. London. Houlston & Sons.
——:o:——
OLD SONG.
Gently touch the warbling lyre,
Chloe seems inclin’d to rest;