Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

If England's isle is favour'd; if her plains
Are sown and reaped by happy, healthful swains;
If in her streets and palaces, the light
Of wealth and splendour sparkles day and night;
If in her capital profusion smiles,
She sends the overplus to other isles;
If her white rustic cottages retain
A beauteous neatness, sought elsewhere in vain;
Her boundless charity a joy imparts
To humbler dwellings, and less cheerful hearts.

When in her halls the young and lovely meet,
When nought but tuneful sounds, and dancing feet,
Are heard and seen;—when costly jewels blaze,
Reflecting the unnumbered lamps, whose rays
Beam like the noon-day sun;—then charity
May animate each bosom, and may be
The leader of the sports: and when at last
The revellers are gone, the splendour past,
It may cause joy elsewhere, and keep aloof
The shades of sorrow from a peasant's roof.

Much has been done; but while some ills remain,
Let not the wretched cry for help in vain;
Send forth the willing tribute, every deed
Of charity is blessed, and it shall lead
To a more perfect union. Erin feels
The kindness of the friendly hand which heals
Her present wounds.—Oh! may dissension cease;
May perfect confidence, and perfect peace
Unite the sister kingdoms—ne'er to part,
Cemented by a union of the heart.

But oh, ye Renegades! ye Absentees!
Who fly from home for luxury and ease,
Draining the country of its produce; taking
Each shilling you can grasp, and then forsaking
Your native land, and the poor slaves whose toil
Drew forth your wealth from the luxuriant soil;
Say, is it just to draw your riches thence,
And leave behind no trifling recompense?
To fill your purse, and then with lavish hands
To scatter its contents in foreign lands?
Lands, where each patriot heart your course should shun,
And scorn Hibernia's cold degenerate son.

Extensive and superb is your estate,
Your grounds magnificent—your income great;
Your mansion noble. Has affliction's breath
Fann'd it, and changed it to the house of death?
Why are the windows shut—the portals closed?
Why is the weary traveller opposed?
Why does no smoke from chimney-tops ascend,
Showing good cheer within?—Is there no friend—
No welcome guest in yonder ancient hall?
No—nor a host to welcome! dark are all
Those once gay chambers; and no more we see
Erin's proverbial hospitality.

Oh! far beyond a proverb was their warm—
Their hospitable welcome; it could charm
The saddest stranger from his silent mood,
Imparting sweetness to the coarsest food:

But thus deserted by their nobles; left
Drained of their opulence; almost bereft
Of quiet dwellings, while the same good will,
The same kind warmth of heart pervades them still;
We mourn for them, and with disgust we see
The cause of all—the heartless Absentee.

Why is his mansion closed? Alas! that gate
Has seldom moved upon its hinge of late;
The Lord is absent seeking purer air,
In Piccadilly, or in Grosvenor Square.
Does public business call on him? if so,
It may be unavoidable.—Oh, no!
Many have good excuses, go they must
When business calls; and we sincerely trust
Their counsels in the state may make amends
For their long absence:—but my blame extends
To those who go uncalled, and only go
To find a wider field for pomp and show;
Drowning all patriot thoughts in baser joys,
And spending Irish coin on English toys:
And when the mischief they have caused breaks forth,
They look amazed, and wonder that the earth
Should so uncivilly refuse to give
Its produce;—or that Irishmen should live
In discontent and pain, while agents pay
To each his wages—some few pence a day!

Go fashion—to the house of mourning go!
With that warm cheek of fire—that heart of snow,
There will that flushing cheek be pale with dread,
When thy glance rests on the unconscious dead;
There will that heart's unthinking coldness melt,
Subdued by better feelings—now unfelt.
Thy lively spirit shrinks from sorrow's breath;
What has that glowing form to do with death?
Disease may rage—thy fellow-men may be
Hurled to their graves; but, what is that to thee?
Gaze on the dead—restrain thy heart's disgust—
What he is, thou shalt be—mere lifeless dust!

The spring is spent in London's gay career,
And in the warmer season of the year,
An English cottage-villa near the sea
Is the retreat of Erin's Absentee!
The winter finds him in the streets of Bath;
Spring reconducts him to the London path;
His road is circular, its course pursuing,
It leads to nothing—but his country's ruin.
Yet has not nature, with a liberal hand,
Scattered her beauties o'er his native land?
Killarney's lakes, and rocks, and Wicklow's glens
Are lovely, and unrivalled; pencils—pens—
Can ne'er describe, or paint them. Then survey
Dublin—still smiling o'er her beauteous bay,
And own that Erin is too fair for thee,
Deserter! Renegade! and Absentee!