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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 | Ireland for the Irish |  |
53
THE FAMINE
Who by yonder hedge is sleeping,
With his babes around him weeping,
In the sunshine fair;
While his gaunt wife, whose wan lips
Are fever-kiss'd, in sad eclipse
Swoons beside him there?
With his babes around him weeping,
In the sunshine fair;
While his gaunt wife, whose wan lips
Are fever-kiss'd, in sad eclipse
Swoons beside him there?
Wake, man! corn awaits thy reaping;
Up, man! wherefore art thou sleeping
When the lark on high
Carols blithely o'er the grain?
Hear thy little ones complain:
“Father! bread!” they cry.
Up, man! wherefore art thou sleeping
When the lark on high
Carols blithely o'er the grain?
Hear thy little ones complain:
“Father! bread!” they cry.
“Father! father! wake from sleeping!”—
Still his babes are round him weeping;
And that fair-hair'd one
Pulls him gently by the arm:
Yet he stirs not, lying warm
In the harvest sun.
Still his babes are round him weeping;
And that fair-hair'd one
Pulls him gently by the arm:
Yet he stirs not, lying warm
In the harvest sun.
Rouse thee, sluggard! Time slow-creeping
Gaineth on thee. Wake from sleeping!
Voices in the sky
Bid thee house thy heavy grain;
Hear thy dearest ones again!
“Father! bread!” they cry.
Gaineth on thee. Wake from sleeping!
Voices in the sky
Bid thee house thy heavy grain;
Hear thy dearest ones again!
“Father! bread!” they cry.
54
“Father! Mother!”—hoarse with weeping:
In their shade the babe is sleeping;
And the tallest child
Soothes the other hungry twain.
Poor pale girl! thy words are vain;
Thine own grief runs wild.
In their shade the babe is sleeping;
And the tallest child
Soothes the other hungry twain.
Poor pale girl! thy words are vain;
Thine own grief runs wild.
“Father! Mother! wake from sleeping!”
Ever hoarser with their weeping:—
They will wake no more.
He is dead, and she death-nearing;
And those little ones despairing—
Father! save thy Poor.
Ever hoarser with their weeping:—
They will wake no more.
He is dead, and she death-nearing;
And those little ones despairing—
Father! save thy Poor.
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