  IT was the wife of Mr. G., The Irish Grand Old Man, A little ditty carolled she, And thus the ditty ran: “I hear him in his dressing-room, My Willie dear, my hub; He little heeds his coming doom, He warbles in his tub. “When he is sad I hear no sound Except the water’s plash; A solemn silence reigns around When thoughts my Willie fash. But now the joyous sound of song Accompanies each rub; Things can’t have gone so very wrong— He warbles in his tub. “Although the country’s cut him dead, And given him the sack, He warbles while he wets his head And while he scrubs his back. I’m sure my Willie sees his way The Tory gang to drub, And that is why he’s blithe and gay And warbles in his tub. “He does not care for Telegraph, Or Morning Post, or Times; He reads therein with many a laugh The record of his crimes. He knows his fingers he can snap At all ‘ye streete of Grubbe’; They haven’t riled the dear old chap— He warbles in his tub. “There’s hope, he thinks, for Ireland yet, The ‘old hand’ isn’t ‘done’; With masses against classes set There’s sure to be some fun. And jest and jeer and snub, And that is why, with spirits high, He warbles in his tub.” MORAL.O Erin, yet shall burst for thee The sunshine through the gloom— Take heart from all this melody In Gladstone’s dressing-room; Plank down your dollars, Yankee boys, And tell each doubting “sub,” No fear the Grand One’s faith alloys, “He warbles in his tub.” |
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