O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles Which each panting bosom indignantly names, Until not one goose at the capital cackles Against the grand question of Catholic claims. XI. And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy, Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy More fishes than ever he caught when a boy. XII. And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock, When bred to _our_ bar shall be Gibbses and Garrows, Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock. XIII. For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune, As Dian outshines each encircling star; And the spheres of the heavens could never have kept tune Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh! VII. THE REBUILDING. BY R. S. {28a} [ROBERT SOUTHEY.] [Mr. Southey died March 13, 1843, in his 69th year.] —“Per audaces nova dithyrambos Verba devolvit numerisque fertur Lege solutis.” HORAT. * * * * * [_Spoken by a Glendoveer_.] I AM a blessed Glendoveer: {28b} ’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear. Midnight, {28c} yet not a nose From Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored! Midnight, yet not a nose From Indra drew the essence of repose! See with what crimson fury, By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury