They seemed, those Sub-Commissioners, more circumspect than gay While hearing Irish evidence interpreted all day, Although alternate intervals were taken to allow Opportunities to each of them to wipe his clammy brow. That evening, at supper, they sought vainly to conceal A variety of feelings unbecoming to that meal; And when they sought their couches, with their constitutions racked, They had tortures worse than striving to elucidate the Act.
So, you’re goin’ out to Aigypt, wirrasthrue! An’ we’ll niver see your faytures any more, Millia murther! what in thunder shall we do Whin you turn your crookid back upon our shore? All innocint divarsion with yourself will be departin’ An’ existence will become a dreary void; Ochone an’ ullagone! we must vainly sigh an’ groan; Philalu! a long adieu to Clifford Lloyd!
No more at midnight’s melancholy stroke Shall we revel in our customary fun Of scaring all the humble women folk In sarchin’ for the shadow of a gun. There’s an ind to legal riot, they may sleep in peace an’ quiet, An’ their slumbers niver more will be annoyed; We’re dejected an’ neglected, an’ we cannot be expected To be happy after banished Clifford Lloyd!
No more cartridges of buckshot we desire, ’Tis a burden whin we’re not allowed to use it, An’ our batons may be thrown into the fire-- We may see a peasant’s head an’ dar not bruise it, The girls may take to coortin’ an’ the boys resume their spoortin’, An’ life by common people be enjoyed, In contint, without lamint, since to Africa they’ve sint That inimy of laughter, Clifford Lloyd!
Misther Healy, you have always been unkind. But we didn’t think you positively cruel Till we noticed how you changed ould Gladstone’s mind, And made him sind away our darlin’ jewel. Our feelins are diminted an’ our souls are discontinted, Troth! we’re altogether ruined an’ destroyed, We’re wailin’ an’ we’re quailin’ and we’re failin’ since the sailin’ Of that father of coercion, Clifford Lloyd!
(A COTTER’S REVERY ON THE EMIGRATION CLAUSE OF THE LAND ACT.)
I’ve been towld there’s a chance in the distance, For struggling poor sowls like myself, To brighten our dreary existence, An’ even to gather some pelf, In a land where the soil is but waitin’ The wooin’ of shovels an’ picks That we’ll take whin we’re all emigratin’ To fortune by Clause Twenty-six.