Can story’d speech or animated bust Back to their cerements conjure wraiths that lurk; Can B――kle’s voice avenge the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Burke? * * * * * The scorn of Saxon senates to command, The threats of Peel and Balfour to despise To scatter terror o’er a suff’ring land, And blend our history in a nation’s cries Our lot requires; nor circumscribed we feel By growing numbers, or by crimes confined, We have to march through rapine to repeal, And shut the mouths of protestant mankind. Our names, our deeds, spelt by the daily Muse The place of Fame and Elegy supply, And many a nasty gibe around she strews That cause the Irish moralist to shy. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, his head upon a lump of clay, A man, to Hansard and to Dod well known; Fair Science had not much was in his way, But Disaffection marked him for her own. Large was his satire, and his purpose clear, Egan did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Loy’lty――all too bad――a sneer, He gain’d in Egan,――well, not quite a friend. No farther seek his secrets to disclose, Or draw his frailties, in these faltering rhymes, From where they――some of them, ’tis said――repose―― The _sanctum_ of his Walter and his _Times_, _Moonshine._ April 30, 1887. [Illustration] DETACHED FRAGMENTS OF PARODIES ON THE “ELEGY.” ―――― EPITAPH ON “THE PIC-NIC.” _Written in a Newsman’s Shop._ Here lie, enwrapt within a dirty sheet, _Pic-Nics_ unsold――of course to fame unknown; Fair Fashion’s patronage they did not meet, And _Grenville_ still may claim them for his own. Large were its pages, and its type most clear, Its price t’ ennoble did as largely tend: But _fourteen numbers_ clos’d its bright career; It found thus soon (what all must find) an end. No farther seek its merits to disclose, Or o’er its faults one briny tear let drop; Here they alike on dusty shelf repose, To add fresh lumber to the newsman’s shop. _The Morning Post._ 1803. ――――:o:―――― EPITAPH ON A NOTED HIGHWAYMAN. Here, high suspended on a gibbet hangs A youth to ev’ry crime and plunder prone; ’Till caught at length, by law’s resistless fangs, The gaping gallows seiz’d him as its own. Bad were his sentiments, his actions worse; And when he mounted Newgate’s fatal drop, He gave the hangman a tremendous curse, And got from him――what he deserv’d――a rope. _The Spirit of the Public. Journals_, Volume X. 1806. ――――:o:―――― A POLITICAL PARODY. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea; Now to the Lords, see Jenky take his way, And leaves the House of Commons unto me. * * * * *