Several other delegates addressed the meeting, and various plans were discussed; but it invariably turned out, upon investigation, that the change would only benefit the class of animals by whom it was proposed. A post-horse was of opinion, that the true remedy lay in decreasing the amount of speed, and shortening the spaces between milestones. A Welsh pony was for the abolition of tolls, which, he said, exhausted the money intended for repairs; whilst some plough-horses from Lincolnshire proposed the encouragement of pasture land, the abolition of tillage, and the disuse of oats altogether. The harmony of the meeting was, at one period, interrupted, by the unfortunate use of the word "_blackguard_" by a delegate from the collieries, which caused a magnificent charger from the Royal Horse Guards, Blue, to rear up, and, with great indignation, demand if the allusion was personal; but who was satisfied with the explanation of the president, that it was applicable only in a warlike sense. A long, lean, bay horse, with a sour head, demanded a similar explanation of the word "_job_," and was told it was used in a _working_ sense. Several resolutions, drawn by two dray-horses, embodying the supposed grievances of the community, were finally agreed upon, and a petition, under the hoof of the president, founded upon them, having been prepared, and ordered to be presented to the House of Commons by the members for Horsham, the meeting separated, and the delegates returned to their respective stables. * * * * * THE PROCLAMATION. Bold warriors of Erin, I hereby _proclaim_, That the world never witness'd your rivals in fame; Bold sons of Macmurraugh, Macarthy, O'Neill, The armies of earth at your sight would turn pale. A flash from your eyes would light England's last pile, And a touch give her sceptre to Erin's green isle. Hurrah for the vengeance of old Mullaghmast, On the blood-bolter'd ground where your gauntlet was cast; Hurrah for the vengeance of Tara's proud hill, Where the bones of our monarchs are blood-sprinkled still. Hurrah for Clontarf, though the Saxon may smile, The last, greatest triumph of Erin's green isle! Let the scoffer scoff on, while I hereby _proclaim_, That flight may be courage, and fear but a name; That boasting is good, when 'tis good for the cause, But, in sight of cold steel, _we should honour the laws_; That powder and shot make men swallow their bile-- So, hurrah for the glory of Erin's green isle! If they ask for your leader, the land's sword and shield, At least none can say that _he fled from the field_. _He_ kept a whole skin--for the service of Rome; So he fix'd his headquarters in quiet at home. They might just as well hunt for the head of the Nile, While he reckon'd his beads for St Patrick's green isle.