(How the prospect strikes an Englishman.)
["In ancient times ... the Devlins were the hereditary horseboys of the O'Neills. (Loud laughter.)"—From the "Times'" report of Mr. Timothy Healy's speech in the House.]
I love to fancy, howsoe'er remote
The fiery dawn of that millennial future,
That some fine day the rent in Ireland's coat
Will be adjusted with a saving suture,
And one fair rule suffice
For lamb and lion, babe and cockatrice.
In her potential Kings I clearly trace
Ground for this hope; no bickering there, no jostling;
If Healy cares to hint that Devlin's race
Subsisted by hereditary ostling,
That's just the family fun
Brothers can well afford whose hearts are one.
No less the picture of O'Brien's fist
Clenched playfully beneath a colleague's nose-piece
Lets me foresee—a sanguine optimist—
That Union which shall bring to ancient foes peace,
When all who lap the Boyne
Beg on their knees to be allowed to join.
Still (to be frank) 'tis not alone the dream
Of leagued Hibernians kissing lips with Ulster
That warms my heart; there is another scheme
That with a livelier motion makes my pulse stir;
And this can never be
Till we have posted Redmond oversea.
But, when he's planted on his local throne,
The Federal Plan should find him far less sniffy;
We shall have Parliaments to call our own
Modelled from that high sample on the Liffey,
And crown the patient years
With joy of "England for the English" (Cheers).
Meanwhile, amid the present rude hotch-potch,
We natives must forgo this satisfaction,
For still the cry is "England for the Scotch"
(Or else some other tribe of Celt extraction);
That's why I shan't be happy
Till Erin's tedious Isle is off the tapis.
O. S.