THE COALITION.

By INNISFAIL.

"IT is done, it is done, the strife is past,
"And the struggle of years is o'er at last;
"The cup is drained and the dregs are gone,
"And the Whig and the Tory all are one!
"Oh! sure there must be some wondrous change-
"Some blessed Millenium near at hand,
"When elements ever adverse and strange,
"Can mingle together so mild and bland.

"Or is it," said I, "that we've haply lit
"On such times as are told in Holy Writ,
"When the leopard and kid would blithly play,
"And the wolf ask the lambkin out to tea?
"Are we born to see such times as those,
"When an end shall be put to wars and woes,—
"When earth shall become a minor heaven,
"And church-rates and tithes be freely given ;
"When Parsons shall look on pigs nor covet

"To sweep the swine to their holy tether,--"And Biblicals think on the sod' to love it, "And Pat and the Polis's herd together?"

So blithe were the broken tones that sped
From my joyful tongue, as I fondly read
How the Ayes and the Noes did meet of late,
And lacker each other in grand debate.
'Twas then that I felt beside mine ear,

The "little bird" of the Poet Peer;

And thus it seemed to say or sing,

As it ruffled and plumed its tiny wing.

"Are you then, indeed, of the doltish race,

"Who think from such scenes as these to trace,
"Through the threat'ning dim of the future's haze,

"A promise of better or brighter days?
"Can you look for an hour of hope or glory,

"An era of good to this blasted land,

"From seeing the grasping, heartless Tory,

"And hungry Whig go hand in hand?

"Do times of rest and repose betide,

"When the bear and the wolf range side by side,—

"And sweep from the region of ice and snow,

"To barry the peaceful vale below?

"Ah! no---that sight is big with ill,

"To the hapless swain of the Alpine hill,

"And heralds a scene of woe and blood

"That shall tinge with its hue the mountain flood.

"Tis thus with the prowling gang you hail-
"Like the savage horde is the human clan,—
"They have banded to hunt on a common trail,

"For the self-same prey, and that prey is Man! "But never despond"-it ceased at this,

And its little breast swelled with a song of bliss,
Like the matin that chaunts the dawn of spring,
As it fluttered along on its golden wing.
Yet, just ere the vision began to fail,

These words came faintly down the gale,—

"Let them flourish awhile, with unwholesome growth, "There's a spirit abroad that will crush them both!"

Dublin: Printed by JOSEPH BLUNDELL,
Office, Nelson-lane,