POETRY.
Gone just when the fierce strain of battle was done ; When the friends of disunion and discord were routed ; Lost when the cause they had fought for had won.
What was their crime, then ? Too well they remember Past pledges : they knew not how fickle your sky : That was only last year in the month of November, And now it is only the month of July.
What do men say of them ? Vanquished, defeated ?
Spurn, laugh, or scorn them, erase from the roll Nay, the cause wins though its chiefs be unseated : Write them up victors, the heads of the Poll 1 Failure P What failure ? If failure, they choose it :- The mob's fickle vote is as dust in the scale : Proud was it to win, but still prouder to lose it : To give up dear honour, that—that—were to fail.
Yet failure ! Yes, here ! All in vain the resistance : We yield, not to reason ; outnumbered we fail.
But hark ! Did ye hear P Far away in the distance, 'Twas the glad shout of victory borne on the gale, From county, from town, from a people decided : Dear Ireland, your wrongs in the past we will own ; But we cannot believe you can prosper divided, Or flourish, dear sister, cut off and alone.
And what shall our friends do P Go, hang their heads beaten, Retire to their woodlands, sink, sulk in the shade ? Read Plato, write verses, like schoolboys from Eton, Play tennis, loll, lounge, in their elms' colonnade ?
Ah, no, gallant leaders ! for England is grateful ; She owes you a debt, she can pay, and she will; While Union is dear, and Dismemberment hateful, Your strength, wit, and wisdom, she needs them all still.
To the artist yield art, to the student leave letters ; Yours be it in strife of the Senate to vie !
To make Ireland find friends, where she only feels fetters,— Ah ! that were a cause both to live for and die.
And, 0 fickle Scotland ! your loss yet unknowing, ro-morrow is theirs, though for you is to-day: For the tide that there ebbs, here in England is flowing, And the last in the Poll shall be first in the fray.
A. G. B..
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