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" |
 |
THE MURDERED
|
 | Ireland for the Irish |  |
57
THE MURDERED
(An Ennistymon Tragedy)
“Goad them on! they are pauper brats!”—The day was raw and “hard”
When the herd of babes was driven forth from the wretched poor-house yard,
Ten weary miles, to the “parent house,” to be “check'd” by the guardians there:—
“Parent” and “guardian”! God of Heaven! And these thy children were.
Goad them on!
When the herd of babes was driven forth from the wretched poor-house yard,
Ten weary miles, to the “parent house,” to be “check'd” by the guardians there:—
“Parent” and “guardian”! God of Heaven! And these thy children were.
Goad them on!
Ten weary miles! They have breakfasted. The stirabout was good:
They fed them scantly; a fuller meal or a more luxurious food
Had left them not in walking trim, had made their forced march slow—
They are babes of from five to fourteen years: your pauper ages so.
Goad them on!
They fed them scantly; a fuller meal or a more luxurious food
Had left them not in walking trim, had made their forced march slow—
They are babes of from five to fourteen years: your pauper ages so.
Goad them on!
Ten weary miles, from eight o' the clock, till now, at dinner-hour,
They have reach'd the “parent house” they wait till night begins to lower;
And the “guardians” view them, “check” them, and again they're on the road.
“No food?”—They were sent to be “check'd,” man! not one of them had food.
Goad them on!
They have reach'd the “parent house” they wait till night begins to lower;
58
“No food?”—They were sent to be “check'd,” man! not one of them had food.
Goad them on!
Ten wearier wearier miles they drag in the dark and stormy night;
They are “falling blind,” and “falling dead,” with weakness and affright;
And the driver can but carry two; the rest somehow crawl on,
Ill-clad, and travel-sore, and faint, and foodless from the dawn.
Goad them on!
They are “falling blind,” and “falling dead,” with weakness and affright;
And the driver can but carry two; the rest somehow crawl on,
Ill-clad, and travel-sore, and faint, and foodless from the dawn.
Goad them on!
So, one by one, to the poor-house they return as best they may;
Some find their way in the storm-dark night, and some not till the day.
Call over their numbers! Eighty-five on that horrible march were led;
But eighty-four are counted now—“What! only one is dead?”
Goad them on!
Some find their way in the storm-dark night, and some not till the day.
Call over their numbers! Eighty-five on that horrible march were led;
But eighty-four are counted now—“What! only one is dead?”
Goad them on!
Poor child! he had felt him failing—“Would they only beg some bread
At a roadside house for him?” Who dared? Still on he staggered.
A fall! a cry! he has struck his skull, reeling against a wall;
They are too weak to lift the Dead. Kind Death! relieve them all.
Goad them on!
At a roadside house for him?” Who dared? Still on he staggered.
59
They are too weak to lift the Dead. Kind Death! relieve them all.
Goad them on!
These are your children, Landlorded? What matter? rents are high.
The Landlord does not want the Poor: 'tis better they should die.
Why “Hell or Connaught” sounds like grace to Hell or Ireland now;
And what if those who damn God's earth divide the land below?
Goad them on!
The Landlord does not want the Poor: 'tis better they should die.
Why “Hell or Connaught” sounds like grace to Hell or Ireland now;
And what if those who damn God's earth divide the land below?
Goad them on!
| Ireland for the Irish | |