And the best of all orators Irishmen are:
There's nothing too good for the Irish.
The voice of Columba was heard from afar,
Burke's eloquence rolled like a conquering car,
And the name of O'Connell's a radiant star;
For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
And the Irishman always is witty, of course;
There's nothing too good for the Irish.
And his wit is as genial and kind as its source;
It never leaves anyone feeling the worse;
He makes bulls, but a good Irish bull's a white horse;
For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
You are thinking, no doubt, to the race I belong:
There's nothing too good for the Irish.
You think I am Irish, but that's where you're wrong;
I am Scotch, but our love for the Irish is strong;
We gave them a saint and we'll give them a song;
For there's nothing too good for the Irish.
AN ENGLISH TOAST.
The English soil!—'tis hallowed ground:
Its restless children roam
The world, but they have never found
So dear a land as home;
Their passion for its hills and downs
Nor space nor time can spoil;
A golden mist of memory crowns
The good old English soil.
The English race!—its pluck and pith,
Its power to stay and win,—
Wise Alfred's, dauntless Harold's kith,
And Coeur de Lion's kin!
Sir Philip Sidney, Hampden, Noll,
Who sat in kingly place!
Wolfe, Nelson, Wellington and all
The good old English race!
The English speech!—the copious tongue,
Terse, vivid, plastic, fit,
Which Chaucer, Spenser loved and sung,
Which gave us Holy Writ;
Which Shakespeare, Milton used, to write,
Which Taylor used, to preach,
And Pitt, to speak, as we to-night—
The good old English speech!
"St. George and Merrie England!"—still
The stirring phrase imparts
Warmth to the blood, and sends a thrill
Through more than English hearts.
God save Old England by His grace!
We all alike beseech,
Who know the English soil or race
And speak the English speech.