Sunny locks. “She is coming, my own!”
The green bowers sever, her blue eyes shine.
Sweet love nearing, sore labour flown,—
Should there be ballad more blythe than mine?
What to me though weariness hover
Still o’er Town where the toilers groan?
Lazy lounger, leisurely lover,
What care I for the Members’ moan
At the Irish incubus, heavy as stone?
For Biggar’s bullying, Whalley’s whine?