In Babylonian halls to-night Are strains of mirth and flashing light, The sheen of satin, gleaming gems In scores of priceless diadems; These are the butterflies, the drones, Vampires who feed on blood and bones. Ah, cruel parasites, beware, One victim of your wrong is there. The London skies are black with cloud The earth enwrapt in night’s dark shroud, As by the despot’s citadel A hand from Shannon fires the shell.
England, to thee and thine belongs The memory of uncounted wrongs That, multiplied through all the years, Have dried the fount of Ireland’s tears. Thy fate is sealed, thy knell has tolled, Not thrice the sum of thrice thy gold Can turn the wrath thou hast defied Of hearts like those from Shannon’s side. Thy future sky is overcast, Thy halcyon days forever past, Earthquake and storm shall overwhelm Thy towers and fanes, thy laws and realm.
Avenging, though dim, with the dust of inaction, And dinted and blunted through fraud and delay, With the hilt spoilt and scarred by the rude hands of faction, And the blade rusting slowly to useless decay, The swift sword of Erin, its temper unbroken, Leaped forth after years from its vain, idle shield, To smite to the earth the vile slander oft spoken, That true men e’er falter or brave spirits yield.
The hearts that had dared to disturb its long slumber, With resolute nerve, may be laid in the clay, But they woke from the harp-strings of Erin a number That throbs through the soul of the nation to-day. And be it in future for joy or for sorrow, To clothe her in glory or shroud her in pall, The tyrants of Ireland shall find from to-morrow The sweets of their empire embittered with gall.
CHRISTMAS DIRGE OF THE LONDON POLICE (1885).
Christmas is here with its fun and frivolity, Mistletoe, holly-bush, kindness, and cheer, Warmth and good-feeling, gay laughter and jollity, We should be happy--for Christmas is here. Yet to it all we are sadly insensible, We have no heart for festivities gay-- Ah! the dark future is incomprehensible, Irish conspiracies hatch night and day. Oh, dear! what will become of us? Will they blow up every man or but some of us? Pity, oh pity, the visages glum of us! Give us a rest--we are pining away.