To a Young Friend who had gone over to Ireland in the interests of his Political Party, at the Parliamentary Election of 1864.

To tell you the truth, dear J., I was sorry
To hear, by your note, that Whig, Roman, and Tory
Are taxing your patience, your time, and invention,
Not even the soft haunting voice that you mention
Has, by its sweet witchery, power to call back,
And make you rein up your political hack.
The deuce take the Tories; a fig for the Whigs;
A plague on the Romans and Radical prigs,
Who flounder and splash in the big Irish puddle,
Like geese in a bog, quack, gabble, and muddle;
Oh, botheration! such bustle and blarney-
I'd souse the whole herd in the Lakes of Killarney.
Too long, my dear J., on the shamrock you've trode,
Bedad they will dub you a son of the sod;
Come over, I bid you; come over the 'say,'
We'll talk the thing out o'er a cup of good 'tay.'
Old grannie is waiting, to give you her hand,
The Rockingham's brimm'd, and the toast on the stand
Well brown'd and well butter'd;-the muse is complaining
The some wild Irish girl your heart is enchaining,
And vows, if you do not come back before long,
You'll never more quaff at the fountain of song.
Now this is an issue, for which you'll be sorry,
So come back-pray do-while the heather's in glory.