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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
‘Come over and Help Us.’
THE IRISH CHILD'S CRY.
Oh, children of England, beyond the blue sea,
Your poor little brothers and sisters are we;
'Tis not much affection or pity we find,
But we hear you are loving and gentle and kind;
So will you not listen a minute or two,
While we tell you a tale that is all of it true?
Your poor little brothers and sisters are we;
'Tis not much affection or pity we find,
But we hear you are loving and gentle and kind;
So will you not listen a minute or two,
While we tell you a tale that is all of it true?
We live in a cabin, dark, smoky, and poor;
At night we lie down on the hard dirty floor;
Our clothes are oft tattered, and shoes we have none;
Our food we must beg, as we always have done;
So cold and so hungry, and wretched are we,
It would make you quite sad if you only could see.
At night we lie down on the hard dirty floor;
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Our food we must beg, as we always have done;
So cold and so hungry, and wretched are we,
It would make you quite sad if you only could see.
There's no one to teach us poor children to read;
There's no one to help us, and no one to lead;
There's no one at all that will tell us the way
To be happy or safe, or teach us to pray:
To the bright place above us we all want to go,
But we cannot,—for how to get there we don't know.
There's no one to help us, and no one to lead;
There's no one at all that will tell us the way
To be happy or safe, or teach us to pray:
To the bright place above us we all want to go,
But we cannot,—for how to get there we don't know.
They tell us the Virgin will hear if we call,
But sure in one minute she can't hear us all.
And the saints are too busy in Heaven, we hear;
Then often the priests make us tremble with fear
At the fire of purgatory, which, as they tell,
Is almost as dreadful as going to hell.
But sure in one minute she can't hear us all.
And the saints are too busy in Heaven, we hear;
Then often the priests make us tremble with fear
At the fire of purgatory, which, as they tell,
Is almost as dreadful as going to hell.
Oh, will you not help us, and send us a ray
Of the light of the Gospel, to brighten our way?
Oh, will you not tell us the beautiful story
Of Jesus, who came from His dwelling of glory
To save little children, and not only you,
But even the poor ragged Irish ones too?
Of the light of the Gospel, to brighten our way?
Oh, will you not tell us the beautiful story
Of Jesus, who came from His dwelling of glory
To save little children, and not only you,
But even the poor ragged Irish ones too?
The English Child's Reply.
We have heard the call from your fair green Isle;
Our hearts have wept at your saddening tale;
And we long to waken a brighter smile
By a story of love which shall never fail.
Our hearts have wept at your saddening tale;
And we long to waken a brighter smile
By a story of love which shall never fail.
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We should like you to come to our Bible-land,
And share our comforts and blessings too;
We would take you all with a sister's hand,
And try to teach and to gladden you.
And share our comforts and blessings too;
We would take you all with a sister's hand,
And try to teach and to gladden you.
But you're so far off that it cannot be,
And we have no wings, or to you we'd fly;
So we'll try to send o'er the foaming sea
Sweet words to brighten each heavy eye,—
And we have no wings, or to you we'd fly;
So we'll try to send o'er the foaming sea
Sweet words to brighten each heavy eye,—
Sweet words of Him, who was once so poor,
That He had not where to lay His head;
But hath opened now the gleaming door
To the palace of light, where His feast is spread.
That He had not where to lay His head;
But hath opened now the gleaming door
To the palace of light, where His feast is spread.
There you may enter; He calls each one,—
You're as welcome there as the greatest king!
Come to Him then, for He casts out none,
And nothing at all do you need to bring.
You're as welcome there as the greatest king!
Come to Him then, for He casts out none,
And nothing at all do you need to bring.
He will change your rags for a robe of white,
An angel-harp, and a crown of gold;
You may dwell for aye in His presence bright,
And the beaming smiles of His love behold.
An angel-harp, and a crown of gold;
You may dwell for aye in His presence bright,
And the beaming smiles of His love behold.
We will gladly save from our little store
Our pennies, our farthings, from day to day,
And only wish we could do far more;
But for Erin's children we'll always pray.
Our pennies, our farthings, from day to day,
And only wish we could do far more;
But for Erin's children we'll always pray.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |