(_With apologies to the Shade of the Author of "Al Aarof."_)
[I have read ... that I have come to Ulster to revive
religious bigotry, to rekindle the embers of party strife,
and to revive ancient feuds which are now in a fair way to
be forgotten. I can assure you that these are not the objects
which I propose to myself. (_Laughter._)--_Report of Mr.
Chamberlain's Speech in Belfast._]
_Erin's Guardian Angel sings_:--
I came (by the steamer)
A cross the wild spray.
No bigot, no dreamer,
To moon time away.
BRIGHT lingers to ponder,
And make tart replies;
But I come, from yonder,
Drawn down from the skies.
With love I am laden,
Peace sits on my brow.
No, sweet Ulster maiden,
My game is _not_ row!
Arise! from your dreaming,
In bright Orange bowers,
To duties beseeming,
Your fame and past powers.
My presence expresses
My fondness for you;
(My game no one guesses,
They read it askew)
Oh, how without you, love,
Can Ireland be blest?
_You_'re loyal, _you_'re true, love,
Mad traitors the rest.
I shake from my wing
Each hindering thing.
The black Parnellite
Would weigh down my flight.
The G. O. M.'s messes,
I leave them apart,
His lures and his jesses,
His tricks and his art.
W. G.! W. G.! Ah!
My old artful one,
You had an idea
With you I should run.
No! it is my will
On the breezes to toss
At caprice, or be still
Like a lone albatross.
Daring duckling? That's past!
Stormy petrel? That's flown!
I'm a halcyon at last,
A new _role_,--and my own!
W. G. Ah! Whoever
Thine "items" may be,
For ever I sever
My fortunes from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In sophistical sleep,
But the angel that flies
Will _thy_ vigilance keep?
O Walker! (Again
A rhetorical flower
From thy full-teeming brain!)
I have passed a brief hour
In those same cipherings
Which you fudge--let that pass!
But my own view of things
Is not modell'd, alas!
On _yours_--none of the clearest--
But then, that's your way--
'Tis one of the queerest;
_Do_ you find it pay?
Ah! love moved the smiles
That beamed forth on my rest
On the greenest of Isles.
Its _Scotch_ natives are best,
For they have in their keeping
Its wealth and its trade,
And Sedition, unsleeping,
Has spoilt, I'm afraid,
The true Pat of the Island.
_He_ burns to be free,
His bosom holds guile, and
His bonnet a bee.
Go to! Let them slumber,
The Home-Ruling lot
Are not the huge number
They tell us--that's rot!
I came to awaken,
An Angel of Peace!
I'm bound to be taken
For such ere I cease.
PARNELL'S spell makes PAT slumber,
Its witchery is test,
And your Orange-host's number
Must manage the rest!
* * * * *