My mind is sad and weary thinking how Our noblemen are all gone oversea; Are far from Ireland, and are fighting now In France, and Flanders, and in Germany. If they, whom I could talk to without dread, Were home I should not mind what foe might do; Nor see the tax-collector seize my bed To pay the hearth-rate that is overdue. I pray to Him -- who, in the haughty hour Of Babel, threw confusion on each tongue -- That I may see our princes back in power, And see Odell, the tax-collector, hung! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER by THOMAS MOORE POMONA by WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) THE AGE OF WISDOM by WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY MARY MAGDALEN by BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA THE VIELD PATH by WILLIAM BARNES ABER STATIONS: STATIO SECUNDA by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN PROLOGUE FOR MRS. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT by ROBERT BURNS |