Weep! for Mandeville is martyred, stilled the hero heart he bore—
Done to death in Tullamore!
Ah, distinctly we remember peasants, thrust, in bleak December,
From the peat-fire’s smouldering ember, wandering on the barren shore,
Shiveringly to wait the morrow, vainly to attempt to borrow
Solace and surcease of sorrow—sorrow for their homes of yore—
For the poor dismantled cabins that they named their homes of yore—
Their one shelter, Tullamore!
Tyrant Balfour! slave of evil! Tyrant still if man or devil!
Whether Satan sent, or whether Cecil set thee at her door.