The vermin still linger, Cavour of my heart.
Cavourneen, Cavourneen, the dead lie in numbers
Beneath the torn turf where the living made fight;
In the bed of My Uncle the Emperor slumbers,
But Italy’s Hapsbugs continue to bite.
Well done, my Cavour, they have cut short the struggle
That fired all the pulses of Italy’s heart;
And in turning thy back on the humbug and juggle;
Cavour, thou hast played a proud gentleman’s part.
Shirley Brooks, 1859.