Volume 146 — THE UNION OF IRISH HEARTS.

I love to fancy, howsoe'er remote The fiery dawn of that millennial future, That some fine day the rent in Ireland's coat Will be adjusted with a saving suture, And one fair rule suffice For lamb and lion, babe and cockatrice. In her potential Kings I clearly trace Ground for this hope; no bickering there, no jostling; If Healy cares to hint that Devlin's race Subsisted by hereditary ostling, That's just the family fun Brothers can well afford whose hearts are one. No less the picture of O'Brien's fist Clenched playfully beneath a colleague's nose-piece Lets me foresee—a sanguine optimist— That Union which shall bring to ancient foes peace, When all who lap the Boyne Beg on their knees to be allowed to join. Still (to be frank) 'tis not alone the dream Of leagued Hibernians kissing lips with Ulster That warms my heart; there is another scheme That with a livelier motion makes my pulse stir; And this can never be Till we have posted Redmond oversea. But, when he's planted on his local throne, The Federal Plan should find him far less sniffy; We shall have Parliaments to call our own Modelled from that high sample on the Liffey, And crown the patient years With joy of "England for the English" (Cheers). Meanwhile, amid the present rude hotch-potch, We natives must forgo this satisfaction, For still the cry is "England for the Scotch" (Or else some other tribe of Celt extraction); That's why I shan't be happy Till Erin's tedious Isle is off the tapis. O. S.