8
The Grand Old Pipe
I have ceased to believe in the LeaderWhom I loved in the days of my youth:Is he, or am I the seceder?It were hard to determine the truth.But my enmity is not impassioned:I'll forgive and forget if I can,And I'm smoking a pipe which is fashionedLike the face of the Grand Old Man.
It was made in the days when his collarsWere still of the usual size,And before the recipients of dollarsWere known as his trusted allies:But I love, as I lounge in the garden,Or work at my chambers, to gazeAt the face of the master of Hawarden,As he was in the Grand Old Days.
My pipe was my one consolationWhen its antitype kindled the flameWhich threatened the brave populationOf Ulster with ruin and shame:I forgot that our ruler was dealingWith scamps of the Sheridan type,While the true orange colour was stealingO'er the face of my Grand Old Pipe.
