But the Plan of Campaign, as its authors confess,
  Was not, on the whole, a decided success: 
  And the blackguardly minion whom tyrants employ
  Evicted at last great Cornelius Molloy.

  The Saxon oppressor, still potent for harm,
  Gave Peter a lease of Cornelius’ farm: 
  Which Peter accepted with virtuous joy—­
  For he lived quite adjacent to Mr Molloy.

  Cornelius was angry (and faith he’d a right),
  So he came with a party to Peter’s by night,
  And they shot through the door, with intention to slay
  That traitor and land-grabber, Peter O’Shea.

  Poor Peter was pained, but he scorned to show fear: 
  “Sure the law will protect me so long as I’m here: 
  ’Tis an iligant holding and little to pay;
  Och! ’twas only wid shnipe-shot!” said Pether O’Shea.

  But the Liberal Party observed with dismay
  The outrageous proceedings of Peter O’Shea;
  And Mr O’Kelly, our pride and our joy,
  Made a law for restoring Cornelius Molloy.

  Cornelius came back to his former abode,
  And Peter was houseless, and starved on the road: 
  For Justice, whose methods O’Kelly can tell,
  Gave Cornelius his holding and Peter’s as well.

  It is this which inspires us with feelings of awe
  For the standards of Justice embodied in Law: 
  And tenants, the law when inclined to obey,
  Will be cheered by the instance of Peter O’Shea.

THE END OF IT

  Must we then cease to exist as a party,
    Sink to the items that once we have been,
  All for the scruples of Justin M’Carthy,
    All for Committee-Room No. 15?

  This is the end of a decade of labour,
    Blood that we might have—­conceivably—­shed,
  Daily incitements to boycott your neighbour,
    Daily allusions to ounces of lead!

  Is it for this that the champion whose speeches
    Fear not to mention the year ’98
  Sleeps on a plank and is robbed of his breeches,
    Loses some pounds of his natural weight?

  These, it would seem, are that patriot’s wages—­
    Only to hear that the battle is o’er,
  Only to blot from our history’s pages
    Memories of Mitchelstown, tales of Gweedore!

  All the great days of the row and the ruction,
    Days on the hillside and nights in the House,
  When by persistent and careful obstruction
    Saxons were kept from their yachts and their grouse: 

  All was a dream unsubstantial and airy—­
    Tenants are cravens, and landlords are paid: 
  Lone and deserted is New Tipperary,
    Lodgings to let in O’Brien Arcade!

  Some are for Redmond and some for M’Carthy,
    All are the items that once they have been: 
  This is the end of the National Party,
    All for Committee-Room No. 15.