Punch (94.1888)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [M«ch 10 1888.

us

Tommy. "Wasn't it Phidias who made the Eljin Marbles,
Aunt Hippolyta ?"

Aunt Hippolyta. " Phobias, dear, not Ph/dias ; and you must
say Elqin, not Eljin. The Greek G, or Gamma, is always
pronounced barb, you know."

HIBEKNIA.

Fragments Oj a Lay sung on the day tohen the Patriot Singer (and Lord
Mayor) S-ll-v-n was released from durance vile, to " The Harp that
once in Tullamore the soul of music shed," in strains of mingled
patriotism and parody (some way, apparently, after Macaulay's
" Virginia.''

Ye good Men of the Commons, with, loyal hearts and true,

Who stand by us bold Irish, who now will stand by you.

Come, light your weeds around me, aud mark my tale with care,

Of what poor Ireland oft hath borne, and yet may have to bear.
* * * * * *

Of all the wicked Tories still the names are held accursed,

And of all the wicked Tories black B-lf-r was the worst.

He stalked about the Chamber like a Banthorne in his pride,

Or sprawled with lank and languid legs entangled or spread wide.

The Irish eyed with anger, not all unmixed with fear,

His lilted chin, his curling mouth that always seemed to sneer:

That brow of brass, that mouth of scorn, mark all the Bpecies still,

For never was there Tory yet but wished the Irish ill.

Nor lacks he nt attendance ; for ever at his heels

That most notorious renegade, his Sub., K-ng-H-RM-n, steals,

His written answer ready, be the question what it may,

And the smile nickering on his cheek for aught his Chief may say.

**»»•*
Just then, as in a cloudless gap in a long stormy sky,
Shining with hope in her blue eyeB a fair young girl came by;
A four-leaved shamrock in her hand, and, as Bhe danced along,
She warbled gaily to herself snatches of Irish song,
With reference to Bory, and allusion to Kathleen,
And now and then a stanza of " The Wearing of the Green;"
A bit from Samuel Lover, and a stave from Tommy Moore
(Not forgetting Lord Mayor S-ll-v-n, who as a bard oan score).

The maiden sang as Irish maidi alone such songs can sing,
When Hope is in its budding-time and Love is in its Spring.
Black B-lf-r heard her sweet young voice, and saw her sweet young
face,

And hated her with the black hate of his old Tory race;
And watching close to see where she would go, and whom she'd meet,
His vulture eye pursued the trip of those bare glancing feet.
******

So blithely young Hibernia came smiling from her home.
Ah I woe for young Hibernia, the best beloved of Rome!
She mused of that great Forum for which all patriots pray,
And just had reached the very spot where it shall stand one day,
When up the varlet B-lf-r came; not such as when erewhile
He lounged in far St. Stephen's with cock'd heels and simpering
smile ;

He came with lowering forehead, fierce features, and clenched fist,
And strode across Hibernia's path, and caught her by the wrist.
Hard strove the frighted maiden, and screamed with look aghast,
And at her scream from left and right the folk came running fast;
The old money-changer, Gl-dst-ne, with his thin silver hairs,
And H-ro-rt of the stately form and glittering " Rhodian" wares,
And the strong smiter, M-rl-y, grasping a, half-forged brand,
And L-bby, the unruffled, with cigarette in hand,
All came in wrath and wonder; for all knew that fair child.
And as she passed them by—of late—had kissed their hands and
smiled.

And the strong Old Man Gl-dst-ne, gave B-lf-r such a blow ;
The long one reeled three paces back, and let the maiden go.
Yet glared he fiercely round him, and hissed in snaky tone,
" Law's law, and Order's order; I claim her for mine own.
I wait on swart-browed S-l-sb-ry—he's almost like my sire.
Let him who thwarts the nephew's will beware the uncle's ire!"

So spake the varlet, B-lf-r ; and dread and silence came
On all the people at the sound of the Cecilian name ;
for now there was no tribune—no eloquent J-hn Br-ght,
To make the rich man tremble and guard the poor man's right;
There was no sturdy H-et-ngt-n—no honest Ch-mb-rl-n ;
For most of the old champions flocked in the Tory train,
^et ere the varlet B-lf-r again might seize the maid,
Who clung tight to stern M-rl-y's skirt, and sobbed and shrieked
for aid,

Forth through the throng of gazers the Grand Old Gl-dst-ne pressed,
And stamped his foot, and thumped his palm, and smote upon his
breast,

And sprang unto that rostrum by many a poet sung.
And where, aforetime, many a year had pealed his silvery tongue,
And beckoned to the People, and in bold voice and clear, [hear.
Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to

" Now, by your children's cradles, now, by your father's graves,
Be men to-day, ye Liberals, or be for ever slaves!
For this did Cromwell give us laws ? For this did Hampden bleed ?
For this was the great vengeance wrought, upon the Stuart's seed ?
Shall a cat's snarl alarm the race who braved the lion's roar ?
Shall we, who beat great B-c-nsf-ld, crouch to the bland B-lf-b?
Oh, for that ancient spirit that curbed the nobles' will I
Oh, for the men of Thirty-two, who passed the famous Bill 1
In those brave days our Liberals stood firmly side by Bide,
They faced the Tory fury, they tamed the Tory pride;
Shall what their care bequeathed to us, our madness fling away ?
Is the ripe fruit of three-score years all blighted in a day ?
0 crier, to the polling summon the eager throng!
0 tribunes, breathe the word of might that guards the weak from
wrong!

No, by the earth beneath us, and by the sky above,
We will not yield to B-lf-r's hate, Hibernia, whom we love.
A little late we show it, but oh! 'tis true and hot;
And if the Tories doubt that truth, we '11 show them what is what.
Leave, leave, to poor Hibernia, her dearest tie to life,
The hope that springs midst all her woe, and after all her strife;
One gentle speech—O'Br-n's—a century's hatred cures ;
The yoke of love Hibernia courts—she will not brook B-if-r's1
No, let the Maiden's Home be free, its Rule be hers ; with pride
She who now loathes ye—as a slave—will love ye—as a bride.
Spare her the inexpiable wrongs, the unutterable shame
Of being shackled and coerced to suit your Party game:
Lest, when her latest hope is fled, her friends are in despair,
Ye learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare I "
******

So far the Old Man eloquent! What further ?—well, I find
The harp that once at Tullamore wailed forth on every wind
Is just a thrifle out of tune, my throat a little dhry ;
Not Tullamore could tame my Muse; the tyrant I defy!
But how they dealt with black B-lf-r, and how, after the fray,
Hibernia—the darlint!—fared, I '11 sing another day.

CULTCHAH!

("A little knowledge is a dangerous thing" !)