That bird whose nest I robbed has often reminded me of Gladstone, the Prime Minister of England, and the prime hypocrite Governor of Ireland. Or, more correctly speaking, I should say this Gladstone, Prime Minister of England, in his government of Ireland, has often reminded me of that blackbird. The ruse she played to get me away from her nest is the ruse he has played to get Irishmen away from the work that would rob him of Ireland. Irishmen in the hands of English jailers are snatched away from them in the heart of England; English castles are blown down; English governors of Ireland are slain; there is terror in England--terror in the hearts of Englishmen. Gladstone chuckles “chuc-chuc-chuc-chuc, I’ll give you Home Rule for Ireland.” Irishmen listen to him; they follow him; he flies away from them; his eyesight gets bad, and he is blind to all his promises of Home Rule for Ireland. Irishmen are divided; the work that struck terror into the heart of the Englishman is abandoned by them; his eyesight is restored to him, and he is now writing Bible history. His “chuc chuc-chuc” is so much akin to my blackbird’s “chuc-chuc-chuc” that I christen her the “Gladstone blackbird.” But the resemblance holds good only as regards the use of the cry. The objects and purposes of its use are different. The poor bird cried “chuc, chuc,” to save her children from destruction. Gladstone cried “chuc, chuc,” to keep the children of Ireland in the hands of their destroyer. And how many are the storied memories that possess me now in connection with that road I traveled the day I robbed the blackbird’s nest! It was on that road I shook hands with Daniel O’Connell; it was on that road Cliona, the fairy queen, used to enlist lovers; that was the road I traveled going to the fair of Newmill, and the road I traveled the day I went to Lord Carberry’s funeral. I have spoken of the Jackey-boys living on that roadside. Who were they? They were boys of the name of O’Mahony, “rough and ready roving boys, like Rory of the Hill.” They had a farm of land; they had a fishing boat, and they had the name of, one way or another, getting the better of any of the English garrison party that would do them a wrong. Two of them were out on the seacliffs one day, robbing an eagle’s nest. A rope was tied to a pannier; one of them went into the pannier; the other let the pannier slide down till it was at the nest. The young ones were put into the pannier, and on the way up the mother eagle attacked the robber. The pannier got some jostling; the rope got jagged against the crags, and one of its strands got broken. The brother in the basket below cried out to the brother on the cliff above, “Dar fia! Shawn, ’ta ceann do na stroundee bristeh” (By this and by that, Jack, one of the strands is broken). “Coimead thu fein go socair,” said the other. “Ni’l aon bao’al ort, chun go brisig an tarna strounda.” (Keep quiet; there is no fear of you till the second strand breaks.)