ULYSSES ASLEEP. CUBA, ROONEY, AND FISH OUTSIDE ON THE LOBBY. ROONEY _Loquitur_. ULYSSES asthore! Good lord, don't he snore! ULYSSES! ULYSSES, my boy! There's company here, must see you, me dear, In spite of this Spanish kill-joy. This Minister FISH, who, had he his wish, Wud put your ould ROONEY down-stairs. Ay, faith if he dar, but betther by far The sinner was sayin' his pray'rs. Arrah what does he mane at all? Now, ULICK S. GRANT, it's your own self I want, To patiently listen, mavrone, To what I've to say, in a fatherly way, As if you wor child ov my own. For shure is it time, in prose or in rhyme, That somebody spoke up, who dar'. ULYSSES awake! for Liberty's sake, It's braykin our hearts you are. Arrah what do you mane at all? Och, wirrasthrue vo! it's bitther to know The work that goes an in your name; The murdher an' ruin, that others are doin' Whilst you have to showlder the shame! The grief that is ours, whin you, by the Pow'rs, Seem traytin it all like a joke, Like NAYRO, the thief, whin Room was in grief, That fiddled away in the smoke! Arrah what do you mane at all? Och, wake up, ochone! Your innimies groan The words that cut deep as a sword: "He's greedy for goold, an by its slaves rooled ULYSSES is false to his word. See poor Cuba there, all tatthered and bare; For months at his doore she has stud; Not a word he replies to her sobs or her sighs, Nor cares for her tears or her blood! Arrah what does he mane at all?" Musha, what's that you say? "Sind the ould fool away." I'm disturbin' your rest wid my prate; There's Minister FISH, to consult if I wish, Who attinds to all matthers of state. An' Cuba, she too, wid her hulabaloo, May just as well bundle an' go; You won't hear us now, wid our murtherin row, You'll sleep it out whether or no! Arrah what do we mane at all? Ah! then, by my sowl, this thratemint is foul-- To put your best frinds to the blush; An' wor you sinsare, in what you sed there We'd tie up your whistle, my thrush! But ULICK, machree, you can't desave me, By sayin' the word you don't mane; Or make her beleeve who stands at me sleeve, In FISH an' his Castles in Spane. Arrah what do you mane at all? 'Tis late in the day to talk in that way; We've had ministhers dishes galore, An' laste to my taste, at the blundherin faste, The sauce ov that fish one, asthore. No, ULICK, alan! the work that's in han' Must be done by yourself, if at all. Your cooks, by my troth, are burnin' the broth, We smell it out here in the hall! Arrah what do you mane at all?