Whose ghastly horrors smote the soft heart numb
And wrung and chilled it to the very core.
'Twas a villainous attention, this suffering and gore,
That we'd rather have dispensed with, from your brother 'Ninety-Four
But even he, my lad, a jest could work,
And on occasion smile, and nod, and beck;
To England gave—a rising Son of York,
And gave to Ireland—Mr. Gladstone's cheque!
Thus tickling Mr. Bull from smiles and laughter to a roar.
But hearty laughs like these, my friend, were few in 'Ninety-Four.