 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE FAMINE FIEND, 1886.
It comes over the ragged rolling waters,
It comes over the narrow restless sea,
The despair of poor Erin's suffering daughters,
With the starving children's piteous plea;
From the rocky coasts of her western islands,
Where the wild Atlantic billows beat,
From the lonely plains, and the crested highlands
That the greedy cormorants make their seat;
Out of every mean and mud-built cottage,
Out of every bleak and boggy moor,
Where they sink for the lack of the pauper's pottage,
Comes the cry of the faint and famished poor.
It comes over the narrow restless sea,
The despair of poor Erin's suffering daughters,
With the starving children's piteous plea;
From the rocky coasts of her western islands,
Where the wild Atlantic billows beat,
From the lonely plains, and the crested highlands
That the greedy cormorants make their seat;
Out of every mean and mud-built cottage,
Out of every bleak and boggy moor,
Where they sink for the lack of the pauper's pottage,
Comes the cry of the faint and famished poor.
81
And amid the Pleasure that tastes so bitter,
As they groan beneath its gilded stress,
While they give their lives for an evening's glitter,
And two hundred guineas for a dress;
Where the slaves of the social form and fiction,
With their willing hands impose the chains,
That have bound them fast, in a worse affliction
Than the dreadest tyrant's dreadest pains;
Amid waste of wealth and the pampered vices,
From the land that seems under the curse of drouth,
When but half a meal for a day suffices,
Falls the feeble moan of the hungry mouth.
As they groan beneath its gilded stress,
While they give their lives for an evening's glitter,
And two hundred guineas for a dress;
Where the slaves of the social form and fiction,
With their willing hands impose the chains,
That have bound them fast, in a worse affliction
Than the dreadest tyrant's dreadest pains;
Amid waste of wealth and the pampered vices,
From the land that seems under the curse of drouth,
When but half a meal for a day suffices,
Falls the feeble moan of the hungry mouth.
And athwart the strife of contending factions,
As the dupes of party lie for power,
In the fog of the dirty words and actions,
That are all a modern statesman's dower;
As they grin through their painted masks, and mumble
The old falsehoods long they have learnt so well,
While they cling to their ill-got place, and stumble
In costumes for which their souls they sell;
Athwart all the hateful slough of vermin,
Who will not relax their ravening grip,
Be it patriot knave or the fool in ermine,
Steals the murmur of many a dying lip.
As the dupes of party lie for power,
In the fog of the dirty words and actions,
That are all a modern statesman's dower;
As they grin through their painted masks, and mumble
The old falsehoods long they have learnt so well,
While they cling to their ill-got place, and stumble
In costumes for which their souls they sell;
Athwart all the hateful slough of vermin,
Who will not relax their ravening grip,
Be it patriot knave or the fool in ermine,
Steals the murmur of many a dying lip.
We have been estranged, we will not be longer,
Now we know our brothers are sore in need,
And the weakened bonds will grow tight and stronger,
If we staunch the open wounds that bleed;
We will throw a bridge across the distance,
And fill up the yawning chasm with gold
Of the love, that is coined in rich assistance,
And is pining for just our brothers' hold.
But when once our hands are clasped, and whether
We set out on a new and nobler start,
Or we tread on the ancient lines together,
We will never, never let them part.
Now we know our brothers are sore in need,
And the weakened bonds will grow tight and stronger,
If we staunch the open wounds that bleed;
We will throw a bridge across the distance,
And fill up the yawning chasm with gold
Of the love, that is coined in rich assistance,
And is pining for just our brothers' hold.
But when once our hands are clasped, and whether
We set out on a new and nobler start,
Or we tread on the ancient lines together,
We will never, never let them part.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |