The Spirit of the Nation/An Arms' Bill Ballad
AN ARMS BILL BALLAD.
"Oh! fairest and rarest, why art thou alone?
Thy nearest and dearest one, where is he flown?
With fleetness, and sweetness, he flew, like the dove,
To his nest in thy breast—from his toil to his love."
My Connor is exiled, but not for a fault—
He dared to defend me from midnight assault!
Our cabin was enter'd—what man would not draw
The staff, or the steel, on the Ruffian-by-law?
Dark, dark were his plots, since the day I preferr'd
The ring and the rite to his treacherous word;
He harass'd us down from our leasehold, to fill
The pitiful state of his Tenant at will.
At last he distrain'd—but I brought him his Rent—
He wooed me to crime—but I came as I went—
And he swore a deep oath, ere the morrow's bright sun,
In spite of my will, that his will should be done.
And he came with his minions, that promise to keep,
When all of mankind, save the beasts, were asleep,
In search for some weapon devour'd by the rust:
His words were of weapons—his thoughts were of lust.
My Connor was valiant as ever drew sword,
For the country he loved, or the wife he adored;
But vain was the strife 'gainst the Ruffian's commands,
And the minions' obedience, to fetter his hands.
They bore him to prison—the object was gain'd—
The minions departed—the ruffian remain'd.
Oh! imagine, imagine * * * * * * *
There's madness within me * * * * * * *