“Um--um--yourself, I think, your washup.”
“Sergeant, you forget yourself. I am not coffin-headed. Not even a rebel would dare apply such a term to me. Prisoner, in the face of the overwhelming evidence adduced, I do not think it necessary to proceed further; besides, there are other allusions which a thoughtless world might associate with me. Society must be preserved against such desperadoes. If I could trust the honesty of a jury of your countrymen, I would commit you for trial; but, alas! they would not see the evidence with the clear gaze which I bend upon it. Therefore I give you the highest sentence in my power--three months’ imprisonment--and, sergeant, just look over the act and see under what clause we shall record it.”
Christy Connell served the three months, but to this day neither himself, the magistrate, the jailer, nor the county member who brought his case before Parliament have been able to find out for what he was convicted. And that’s one specimen out of a hundred of the working of the coercion act.
Oh pray, good Cousin Jonathan, assist me in my plight; And ease my aching brain of this perpetual affright That keeps me quaking all the day and shivering all night-- An incubus I can’t shake off, a shade I cannot fight. I am very, very sorry for the _Alabama’s_ pranks, I regret that I contributed to arm Secession’s ranks, But if you’ll only aid me now to crush these Irish cranks, Upon my knees I’ll pledge eternal gratitude and thanks.
As empress of the ocean, and as mistress of the waves, Britannia has a perfect right to string up Afghan braves; To blow to bits, with dynamite, the Zulus in their caves, And to burn the huts of savages who will not be her slaves. But when the men she drove from home with steel and buckshot dare Return with nasty bombs to beard the lion in his lair, And send his best establishments cavorting through the air-- Good Heavens! you must admit it’s quite a different affair.
Poor Gladstone dare not crack an egg for fear it might explode, A hundred picked detectives guard her Majesty’s abode. Sir William Harcourt feels unsafe by river, rail, or road, And letter-carriers tremble ’neath the lightest postal load. There is terror in the country and anxiety in town, Insurance rates are rising, while stocks are going down, And since his kilts and plaids were doffed, forever, by John Brown, Uneasy lies the royal head that wears the British crown.