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The bard, and minor poems

By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge
  

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152

III. PART III. THE SUPPER (CONCLUDED.)

O'Connell then arose, and said,
“Friends, devils, demons, all!
I thank you for the compliments
That you have just let fall!
Proud, very proud am I, to meet
You here in Satan's hall!
“True, I have done some good on earth
For this, my bosom friend:
I've labour'd hard for Ireland's bane,
And shall unto the end:
And England's haughty insolence
I still have power to bend.
“Ireland I've kept in burning flame,
And planted treason there;
Her hope is turned to misery,
Her joy to black despair—
And shrieks and lamentations sound
For ever on the air!
“I've robbed the pauper of his pence,
The prelate of his right;
And Ireland, once a land of bloom,
Is now a land of blight.
By heaven! I ne'er will let her rest,
Till all is grim as night.

153

“But most, oh potentates and kings,
Traitors and murderers here,
Ye, who in antique monarchies
Upheld the sword and spear,
Have I perplex'd those loyal men,
That England once held dear.
“I've call'd the King a brutal King,
Their warriors things of straw,
Their maidens harlots, and defied
Each institute and law;
And soon I shall devote their church,
Sir Nicholas, to thy claw!
“Joy! friends and demons, for the land
So soon to be destroyed;
England too long hath now defied
Your power—your plans annoyed:
Proud England yet, ere long, will be
By Satan's snares decoyed!
“The bloody Anarch shall go loose,
And Treason rear her pyre;
Her peaceful homes shall fiercely rage,
In war's rebellious fire;
And I shall then be Ireland's king,
And to her throne aspire!”
Loud cheering followed: Satan grinned,
The Pope and Roebuck swore,

154

And bristling Cerberus sent forth
A long-resounding roar,
Whilst the black cauldron of the damn'd
With hell-broth bubbled o'er.
“Bring hither, boy,” the Devil said
To young Diavolo, “bring
That crown which bloody Nero wore,
And place upon your king,
The sceptre of Caligula dead,
And Dionysius' ring.”
Satan sat down; but once again
Upon his legs arose:
“There is another here,” quoth he,
“Deserves our best applause;
'Tis Roebuck, he of Canada,
The worst of England's foes.
“The man, you see, in stature's small,
But in ambition great;
And though a pigmy and a thrall!
And one of poor estate,
Yet hath he quite enough design
To fill a larger pate.
“‘Roebuck!’ brave boys—fill high your wine
For lo! the morn is near—
Fill higher yet, for soon, you know,
My friends must disappear;

155

Roebuck's best health, and soon may he
Take up his dwelling here!”
Roebuck got up; but ere he spoke
The morning star peep'd out,
Shrill chanticleer crow'd lustily
Amid the motley rout,
And every demon fast retired
With mimicry and shout.
The goblets vanished in the flame,
The wine-cups hiss'd away,
And chaos groan'd most audibly,
To view the light of day;
Old Nick, with tail between his legs,
In terror ran away.
The gates crack'd, and hell's charioteer
Rush'd with his chaise and six,
Whilst all the party, scorch'd and grimed,
Each kiss'd his crucifix:
Three gentlemen of earthly kin
Did ne'er so strangely mix.
What came of them, I cannot tell,
And only this I know,
That they were seen proceeding on,
As fast as they could go,
And, it is said, Diavolo dropt
Them all into the Po.