Ireland for the Irish Rhymes and Reasons Against Landlordism with a Preface on Fenianism and Republicanism. By W. J. Linton, Formerly of the Irish "Nation" |
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REVENGE |
 | Ireland for the Irish |  |
REVENGE
The leaves are still; not a breath is heard:
How bright the harvest day!
'Tis the tramp of a horse; the boughs are stirr'd:
The Agent comes this way.
Was it an old gun-muzzle peep'd
Behind yon crimson leaf?
A shot!—and Murder's bloody sheaf
Is reap'd.
How bright the harvest day!
'Tis the tramp of a horse; the boughs are stirr'd:
The Agent comes this way.
Was it an old gun-muzzle peep'd
Behind yon crimson leaf?
A shot!—and Murder's bloody sheaf
Is reap'd.
Who sold the farm above his head?
Who drove the widow mad?
Who pull'd the dying from her bed?
Who robb'd the idiot lad?
Who sent the starved girl to the streets?
Who mock'd grey Sorrow's smart?—
Yes! listen in thy blood! His heart
Yet beats.
Who drove the widow mad?
Who pull'd the dying from her bed?
Who robb'd the idiot lad?
Who sent the starved girl to the streets?
Who mock'd grey Sorrow's smart?—
Yes! listen in thy blood! His heart
Yet beats.
Not one has help for the dying man;
Not one the murderer stays;
Though all might see him where he ran,
Not even the child betrays.
O Wrong! thou hast a fearful brood:
What inquest can ye need,
Who know Revenge but reap'd the seed
Of blood?
Not one the murderer stays;
Though all might see him where he ran,
Not even the child betrays.
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What inquest can ye need,
Who know Revenge but reap'd the seed
Of blood?
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