THE END OF IT

Must we then cease to exist as a party,
Sink to the items that once we have been,
All for the scruples of Justin M'Carthy,
All for Committee-Room No. 15?

This is the end of a decade of labour,
Blood that we might have--conceivably--shed,
Daily incitements to boycott your neighbour,
Daily allusions to ounces of lead!

Is it for this that the champion whose speeches
Fear not to mention the year '98
Sleeps on a plank and is robbed of his breeches,
Loses some pounds of his natural weight?

These, it would seem, are that patriot's wages--
Only to hear that the battle is o'er,
Only to blot from our history's pages
Memories of Mitchelstown, tales of Gweedore!

All the great days of the row and the ruction,
Days on the hillside and nights in the House,
When by persistent and careful obstruction
Saxons were kept from their yachts and their grouse:

All was a dream unsubstantial and airy--
Tenants are cravens, and landlords are paid:
Lone and deserted is New Tipperary,