Caoine of the Clare Constabulary
SO, you’re goin’ out to Aigypt, wirrasthrue!
An’ we’ll niver see your faytures any more,
Millia murther! what in thunder shall we do
Whin you turn your crookid back upon our shore?
All innocint divarsion with yourself will be departin’
An’ existence will become a dreary void;
Ochone an’ ullagone! we must vainly sigh an’ groan;
Philalu! a long adieu to Clifford Lloyd!
No more at midnight’s melancholy stroke
Shall we revel in our customary fun
Of scaring all the humble women folk
In sarchin’ for the shadow of a gun.
There’s an ind to legal riot, they may sleep in peace an’ quiet,
An’ their slumbers niver more will be annoyed;
We’re dejected an’ neglected, an’ we cannot be expected
To be happy after banished Clifford Lloyd!
No more cartridges of buckshot we desire,
’Tis a burden whin we’re not allowed to use it,
An’ our batons may be thrown into the fire—
We may see a peasant’s head an’ dar not bruise it,
The girls may take to coortin’ an’ the boys resume their spoortin’,
An’ life by common people be enjoyed,
In contint, without lamint, since to Africa they’ve sint
That inimy of laughter, Clifford Lloyd!
Misther Healy, you have always been unkind.
But we didn’t think you positively cruel
Till we noticed how you changed ould Gladstone’s mind,
And made him sind away our darlin’ jewel.
Our feelins are diminted an’ our souls are discontinted,
Troth! we’re altogether ruined an’ destroyed,
We’re wailin’ an’ we’re quailin’ and we’re failin’ since the sailin’
Of that father of coercion, Clifford Lloyd!