The Intellectual Decline of a Liberal Unionist

I have ceased to believe in the Leader Whom I loved in the days of my youth; Is he, or am I, the seceder? It was hard to determine the truth. But my enmity is not impassioned, I'll forget and forgive if I can; And I'm smoking a pipe which is fashioned Like the face of the Grand Old Man.

It was made in the days when his collars Were still of the usual size, And before the recipients of dollars Were known as his trusted allies; And I love, as I lounge in the garden, Or smoke at my chambers, to gaze At the face of the master of Hawarden, As he was in the Grand Old Days.

My pipe was my one consolation When its antitype kindled the flame, Which threatened the brave population Of Ulster with ruin and shame. I forgot that our ruler was dealing With scamps of the Sheridan type, While the true orange colour was stealing O'er the face of my Grand Old Pipe.

Did his conduct grow ever absurder, Till no remnant of reason seemed left? Does he praise the professors of murder? Does he preach the evangel of theft, When he urges our eloquent neighbours To keep other men's land in their gripe? Grows he black in the face with his labours? Well, so does my Grand Old Pipe.

For the sake of its excellent savour, And the many sweet smokes of the past, My pipe keeps its hold on my favour, Though now it is blackening fast; And, remembering how long he has striven, And the merits he used to possess, And his fall, let him now be forgiven, Though he did make a Grand Old Mess.

Is a grand but eccentric old man To be found in this commonplace year? Mr. 3, deny it who can, Is a grand but eccentric old man. No age, since the ages began, Was so dull as the present; but here Is a grand but eccentric old man To be found in this commonplace year.

When Age and Grandeur stoop to folly, And find the masses can betray, What art can reinstate the 'Brolly Which once waved o'er us in the fray? The only way to reawaken The simple faith of days gone by, To save the venerable Bacon And win forgiveness, is to die.

We thought we should weep when the roll of the dead Was swelled by the name of our glorious chief; But his treason exhausted the tears we could shed, And we heard of his death with a sigh of relief.