And of all the wicked Tories black Balfour was the worst,
He stalked about the Chamber like a Bunthorne in his pride,
Or sprawled with lank and languid legs entangled or spread wide.
The Irish eyed with anger, not all unmixed with fear,
His lifted chin, his curling mouth that always seemed to sneer:
That brow of brass, that mouth of scorn, mark all the species still,
For never was there Tory yet but wished the Irish ill.
Nor lacks he fit attendance; for ever at his heels
That most notorious renegade, his Sub., King-Harman, steals,
His written answer ready, be the question what it may,