The woods no more with the stanch-hounds ring;
The song from the glen, so sweet before,
Is hushed since Charlie left our shore.
The prince is gone, but he soon will come,
With trumpet sound, and with beat of drum:
Then up with shout, and out with blade—
We’ll stand or fall with the white cockade.’
Lover, commenting on this song in his Lyrics of Ireland, tells the following anecdote in connection with Ireland, and its devotion to the White Rose:—“The celebrated Lord Chesterfield, who governed Ireland with rare ability and liberality in 1744, when told by an alarmist that ‘the Papists were dangerous,’ replied that he had never seen but one dangerous Papist, and that was Miss ——, a particularly lovely woman. This lady, sharing in the gratitude and admiration of the Roman Catholics, wished to show the Earl how thoroughly she could overcome political prejudices, and on a public occasion at Dublin Castle wore a breast knot of Orange ribbon. The earl, pleased at the incident, requested Lord Doneraile, celebrated for his wit, to say something handsome to her on the occasion. The request occasioned the following impromptu:—
‘Say, little Tory, why this jest
Of wearing Orange on thy breast,