I came (by the steamer) A cross the wild spray. No bigot, no dreamer, To moon time away. BRIGHT lingers to ponder, And make tart replies; But I come, from yonder, Drawn down from the skies. With love I am laden, Peace sits on my brow. No, sweet Ulster maiden, My game is _not_ row! Arise! from your dreaming, In bright Orange bowers, To duties beseeming, Your fame and past powers. My presence expresses My fondness for you; (My game no one guesses, They read it askew) Oh, how without you, love, Can Ireland be blest? _You_'re loyal, _you_'re true, love, Mad traitors the rest. I shake from my wing Each hindering thing. The black Parnellite Would weigh down my flight. The G. O. M.'s messes, I leave them apart, His lures and his jesses, His tricks and his art. W. G.! W. G.! Ah! My old artful one, You had an idea With you I should run. No! it is my will On the breezes to toss At caprice, or be still Like a lone albatross. Daring duckling? That's past! Stormy petrel? That's flown! I'm a halcyon at last, A new _rôle_,--and my own! W. G. Ah! Whoever Thine "items" may be, For ever I sever My fortunes from thee. Thou hast bound many eyes In sophistical sleep, But the angel that flies Will _thy_ vigilance keep? O Walker! (Again A rhetorical flower From thy full-teeming brain!) I have passed a brief hour In those same cipherings Which you fudge--let that pass! But my own view of things Is not modell'd, alas! On _yours_--none of the clearest-- But then, that's your way-- 'Tis one of the queerest; _Do_ you find it pay? Ah! love moved the smiles That beamed forth on my rest On the greenest of Isles. Its _Scotch_ natives are best, For they have in their keeping Its wealth and its trade, And Sedition, unsleeping, Has spoilt, I'm afraid, The true Pat of the Island. _He_ burns to be free, His bosom holds guile, and His bonnet a bee. Go to! Let them slumber, The Home-Ruling lot Are not the huge number They tell us--that's rot! I came to awaken, An Angel of Peace! I'm bound to be taken For such ere I cease. PARNELL'S spell makes PAT slumber, Its witchery is test, And your Orange-host's number Must manage the rest! * * * * * A PROTEST. DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Will you please ask the _Times_ not to allow such unpleasant subjects to be introduced into its columns as there was last Wednesday,--that is, judging by the heading on page 8, "The Birch and the Primitive Seat," which of course none of us fellows read (one line of it was enough for me), and if there is another of the sort, we shall vote that the _Times_ isn't taken in here in future, and I don't think the _Times_ would like that. A word from you will be sufficient, I am sure. Your Constant Reader,