And now his plébiscite has brought him once more into power, All Liberals and Radicals united like a tower; That is, the fight would thus have turned, and have been from the starting won But for his lack of openness――and Chamberlain and Hartington. Bow, wow, wow, &c. JOHN LOWRESS. _The Weekly Dispatch._ July 4, 1886. ―――― THE PILGRIM OF LOVE. _Recitative._ Orynthia, my beloved, I call in vain! Orynthia! Orynthia! echo hears and calls again, A mimic voice repeats the name around, And with Orynthia all the rocks resound. _Air._ A hermit who dwells in the solitudes cross’d me, As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press’d; The aged man paus’d on his staff to accost me, And proffered his cell as a mansion of rest. Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love, For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes, Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thine head; The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses, And rushes fresh pulled for siesta are spread. Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. ―――― BLOWSABEL. _Recitative._ Oh! Blowsabel! my detested, you call in vain, Oh! Blowsabel! echo hears and squalls again; Her horrid voice repeats my name around, And with her bawling all the streets resound. _Air._ A landlord who kept a snug liquor-shop pass’d me, As flurried and hot I up Summer Hill pressed; The knowing one smiled as he stayed to accost me, And proffered his crib for a glass and a rest. Oh! no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,―― No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse. Yet, tarry, my son, till your wife’s fury passes, The “George and the Dragon” shall shelter thy head; My whiskey is good, and full measure my glasses, If fuddled too soon you shall share half my bed; No, no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,―― No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse. From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin. (The same volume contains another parody, entitled _Raw Lobsters_, which is vulgar, and not funny.) ―――― THE VICTIM OF LOVE. _Recitative._