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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Rhymes and Reasons
AGAINST
LANDLORDISM |
 | Ireland for the Irish |  |
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Rhymes and Reasons AGAINST LANDLORDISM
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LANDLORDISM
Landlord Acres nothing needeth,
Full his purse and paunch;
On the grass the peasant feedeth,—
Famine's dogs are staunch:
Apoplectic Acres crammeth,—
How hardwork'd is he;
Landless Labour ever clammeth:
Who the cause can see?
Full his purse and paunch;
On the grass the peasant feedeth,—
Famine's dogs are staunch:
Apoplectic Acres crammeth,—
How hardwork'd is he;
Landless Labour ever clammeth:
Who the cause can see?
“O, the Irishman is lazy:
“Other lands we know
“Have”—no paupers; have no crazy
Homes of peasant woe;
Have no toilers fever-stricken,
Wanting bread to eat;
Do not see their young men sicken
'Mid the shocks of wheat.
“Other lands we know
“Have”—no paupers; have no crazy
Homes of peasant woe;
Have no toilers fever-stricken,
Wanting bread to eat;
Do not see their young men sicken
'Mid the shocks of wheat.
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O, “the lazy Irish peasant!”
Easily 'tis said:
Famine's smile is very pleasant,
Reaping landlords' bread.
Is it laziness or loathing?—
“Lazy!”—Yes! while he,
Who takes all and gives him nothing,
Mocketh Industry.
Easily 'tis said:
Famine's smile is very pleasant,
Reaping landlords' bread.
Is it laziness or loathing?—
“Lazy!”—Yes! while he,
Who takes all and gives him nothing,
Mocketh Industry.
TENANT RIGHT
“Idle rascal! on your lands
“See the rank weed growing;
“While you sit with folded hands,
“Weeds more weeds are sowing.
“Clean the ground, man! till, and sow.”
But—“Who will have the reaping?”
Labour's hand is ever slow
Tyrants' granaries heaping.
“See the rank weed growing;
“While you sit with folded hands,
“Weeds more weeds are sowing.
“Clean the ground, man! till, and sow.”
But—“Who will have the reaping?”
Labour's hand is ever slow
Tyrants' granaries heaping.
“Idler!”—Make the land his own,—
He'll not shirk the weeding;
Right assured,—'tis that alone,
Not the lash he's needing.
Then he'll clean and till and sow,
Nor need your help in reaping.
Labour's hand will not be slow
His own granary heaping.
He'll not shirk the weeding;
Right assured,—'tis that alone,
Not the lash he's needing.
Then he'll clean and till and sow,
Nor need your help in reaping.
Labour's hand will not be slow
His own granary heaping.
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OUR HERITAGE
God's gift, the Land, our common heritage,—
To Adam and his seed, and not entail'd
Upon a few:—what deed hath countervail'd
That tenure handed down from age to age?
To Adam and his seed, and not entail'd
Upon a few:—what deed hath countervail'd
That tenure handed down from age to age?
God's only curse is labour: with the sweat
Of honest brows to earn the fruit of toil.
He plagued us not with landlords, to despoil
The labourer of his God-acknowledged debt.
Of honest brows to earn the fruit of toil.
He plagued us not with landlords, to despoil
The labourer of his God-acknowledged debt.
Parcel the measured ocean; fence the air;
Claim property in clouds and spray-topp'd waves;
In sun and stars; in heaven, as in our graves:
If thou art earth-lord, Tyrant! and God's heir.
Claim property in clouds and spray-topp'd waves;
In sun and stars; in heaven, as in our graves:
If thou art earth-lord, Tyrant! and God's heir.
CONSECRATED LAND
The consecrated land!—
Our fathers' and, alas! our children's grave:
Growing from out their hearts the wild flowers wave
O'er that dear earth, and on it yet doth stand
The poor man's shrine.
What prince dare lay his hand
On this, and say “'Tis mine”?
Our fathers' and, alas! our children's grave:
Growing from out their hearts the wild flowers wave
O'er that dear earth, and on it yet doth stand
The poor man's shrine.
What prince dare lay his hand
On this, and say “'Tis mine”?
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Is not our martyrs' earth
Held sacred too?—not merely the low ditch
Where kings can fling them, but the wide land which
Should be more than the grave-stone of their worth.
Where Emmett and Fitzgerald trod,—
What peer can own that earth?
None—none but God.
Held sacred too?—not merely the low ditch
Where kings can fling them, but the wide land which
Should be more than the grave-stone of their worth.
Where Emmett and Fitzgerald trod,—
What peer can own that earth?
None—none but God.
The “consecrated” soil!—
Is not the round earth God's,—his sacred field,
Where Man may learn celestial arms to wield,
And grow divine through sanctity of toil?
What landlord dare
To dispossess God's seed? what power shall spoil
Those whom God planted there?
Is not the round earth God's,—his sacred field,
Where Man may learn celestial arms to wield,
And grow divine through sanctity of toil?
What landlord dare
To dispossess God's seed? what power shall spoil
Those whom God planted there?
THE SLAVE OF THE SOIL
The ass is fed, they muzzle not
The ox that treads the corn:
But they leave their human labourer
To starve and die forlorn.
The rich man's hound hath his kennel and
His meat both night and morn:
'Tis only the human labourer
Is left to die forlorn.
The ox that treads the corn:
But they leave their human labourer
To starve and die forlorn.
The rich man's hound hath his kennel and
His meat both night and morn:
'Tis only the human labourer
Is left to die forlorn.
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They tell us we are heirs of heaven,
Like them God's children born:
But the power that makes man's law hath laugh'd
God's holiest law to scorn.
We toil far worse than the lowest beasts;
And the beasts when lamed or worn
Are kill'd: it is only the human jade
Is left to die forlorn.
Like them God's children born:
But the power that makes man's law hath laugh'd
God's holiest law to scorn.
We toil far worse than the lowest beasts;
And the beasts when lamed or worn
Are kill'd: it is only the human jade
Is left to die forlorn.
Our youth is sad, our manhood's strength
Before its prime is shorn;
If we marry we do but curse the day
Or ever a child is born.
O God of the weak and sore-oppress'd,
Look down upon where we mourn,
And let not Thy human labourers
Be left to die forlorn!
Before its prime is shorn;
If we marry we do but curse the day
Or ever a child is born.
O God of the weak and sore-oppress'd,
Look down upon where we mourn,
And let not Thy human labourers
Be left to die forlorn!
TENANT-FARMING
Rackrent field and rent the moor:
Such is Landlord's law, man!
“He lends God who gives the poor”—
Seems an idle saw, man!
Rob the labourer of the sod;
Say your warrant comes from God:
Dare them find a flaw, man!
Such is Landlord's law, man!
“He lends God who gives the poor”—
Seems an idle saw, man!
Rob the labourer of the sod;
Say your warrant comes from God:
Dare them find a flaw, man!
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Eat the harvest he has sown:
All in right of law, man!
Steal his bread, nor give him stone,—
Improving on the saw, man!
Curse him! when potatoes fail
Press him for a double gale:
There's in his lease a flaw, man!
All in right of law, man!
Steal his bread, nor give him stone,—
Improving on the saw, man!
Curse him! when potatoes fail
Press him for a double gale:
There's in his lease a flaw, man!
Hunt him from his naked home
With cunning dogs of law, man!
Bid him to the poor-house come,
If winter winds are raw, man!
Raze his cottage: should it stand
For an eye-sore on your land?
Yours!—Who finds a flaw? man!
With cunning dogs of law, man!
Bid him to the poor-house come,
If winter winds are raw, man!
Raze his cottage: should it stand
For an eye-sore on your land?
Yours!—Who finds a flaw? man!
If he houses in your ditch,
'Tis against the law, man!
Drive him to your neighbour's: which—
Matters not a straw, man!
Let his wife and children there
Starve and rot: what need you care
For slaves you never saw? man!
'Tis against the law, man!
Drive him to your neighbour's: which—
Matters not a straw, man!
Let his wife and children there
Starve and rot: what need you care
For slaves you never saw? man!
Feed your beasts where peasants fed:
Such is Famine's law, man!
Which would fetch you most a head?
Truth cuts like a saw, man!—
Alone, upon the bloody sod,
Thou read'st thy warrant: is't from God?
Cans't thou find a flaw? man!
Such is Famine's law, man!
Which would fetch you most a head?
Truth cuts like a saw, man!—
Alone, upon the bloody sod,
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Cans't thou find a flaw? man!
THE SHIRLEYS
'Twas a splendid morn for the hunt indeed,
And the Devil look'd grimly glad,
As he whistled his hounds of the Shirley breed—
The savagest pack he had.
And I saw him lead them to cover there:
How the deep-mouth'd bloodhounds grinn'd
As a peasant fled from his wretched lair
And they drove him against the wind.
And the Devil look'd grimly glad,
As he whistled his hounds of the Shirley breed—
The savagest pack he had.
And I saw him lead them to cover there:
How the deep-mouth'd bloodhounds grinn'd
As a peasant fled from his wretched lair
And they drove him against the wind.
Ho, Rapine! Rackrent! follow him close;
See, Famine has pull'd him down:
Though the sport be brief, yet heaven knows
That fault is not our own.
Another! another! and dam and young!—
And the hell-dogs bark amain;
O, the bursting heart and the fever'd tongue
And the failing, desperate strain!
See, Famine has pull'd him down:
Though the sport be brief, yet heaven knows
That fault is not our own.
Another! another! and dam and young!—
And the hell-dogs bark amain;
O, the bursting heart and the fever'd tongue
And the failing, desperate strain!
Men and women and babes they slew,
Till the very Fiend grew sick;
But the savager hounds—no rest they knew
While blood remain'd to lick.—
My ears yet ring with their horrid yell,
My heart beats fast with fear:—
Would God it were only a dream of Hell!
But the Shirleys hunt us here.
Till the very Fiend grew sick;
But the savager hounds—no rest they knew
While blood remain'd to lick.—
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My heart beats fast with fear:—
Would God it were only a dream of Hell!
But the Shirleys hunt us here.
“FROM THE CENTRE UPWARDS”
If Puddledock can vomit truth,
Or truth be venom'd lies,—
If Russell-Castlereagh know ruth,
Whig statesmanship be wise,—
If butcher's meat grow wholesomer
By dint of carrion flies,—
King Property owns earth and air
From the centre to the skies.
Or truth be venom'd lies,—
If Russell-Castlereagh know ruth,
Whig statesmanship be wise,—
If butcher's meat grow wholesomer
By dint of carrion flies,—
King Property owns earth and air
From the centre to the skies.
So pursy Athol swears he doth,—
“Keep off the waste!” he cries;
And sky and moor, he'll fence them both
From depredating eyes.
While Minos in a Highland kilt
Guards Eden from surprize,
There's scarce a doubt his Grace of Tilt
May own both earth and skies.
“Keep off the waste!” he cries;
And sky and moor, he'll fence them both
From depredating eyes.
While Minos in a Highland kilt
Guards Eden from surprize,
There's scarce a doubt his Grace of Tilt
May own both earth and skies.
No urchin his red lips shall smear
With autumn's luscious prize;
No milkmaid stint her song to hear
The lark that heavenward hies:
'Tis theft, Sir! theft: wild fruit, wild tones,
And wild flowers' varied dyes,
Are grown on Lordling's land, who owns
From the centre to the skies.
With autumn's luscious prize;
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The lark that heavenward hies:
'Tis theft, Sir! theft: wild fruit, wild tones,
And wild flowers' varied dyes,
Are grown on Lordling's land, who owns
From the centre to the skies.
When starvelings tire of fattening drones,—
“Why then”—his Grace replies—
“We'll clear our lands, nor let your bones
“Manure our Paradise;
“We'll have Steam-power for helot then.”—
But what if Labour rise,
And land you, scarecrow gentlemen,
Somewhere 'twixt earth and skies?
“Why then”—his Grace replies—
“We'll clear our lands, nor let your bones
“Manure our Paradise;
“We'll have Steam-power for helot then.”—
But what if Labour rise,
And land you, scarecrow gentlemen,
Somewhere 'twixt earth and skies?
EXTERMINATION
Why not, says Shirley, clear my land?
The land is all my own,
To use or waste as likes me, and
To be gainsaid by none.
I'll have no peasant holdings here,
But meadow, park, or moor:
Such is my will; the land I'll clear;
What care I for the poor?
The land is all my own,
To use or waste as likes me, and
To be gainsaid by none.
I'll have no peasant holdings here,
But meadow, park, or moor:
Such is my will; the land I'll clear;
What care I for the poor?
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And since thy land is also thine,
By grace of God, we'll say,—
And since poor rogues may not combine,
Though rich and strong ones may,—
Why not, my Lords! join hand to hand
To rid us of our fear,
And all conspire to clear the land
From the Causeway to Cape Clear?
By grace of God, we'll say,—
And since poor rogues may not combine,
Though rich and strong ones may,—
Why not, my Lords! join hand to hand
To rid us of our fear,
And all conspire to clear the land
From the Causeway to Cape Clear?
Root out the serfs; perhaps transplant,—
Too costly that would be;
Evict them; need they die of want
While there's the Irish Sea?—
Which is the cheapest Negro breed,
To stock our farms?—“O, fie!
“Hill-Coolies now; the Blacks are freed”:
Says sleek Philanthropy.
Too costly that would be;
Evict them; need they die of want
While there's the Irish Sea?—
Which is the cheapest Negro breed,
To stock our farms?—“O, fie!
“Hill-Coolies now; the Blacks are freed”:
Says sleek Philanthropy.
PROPERTY
The black-cock on the pathless moor,
The red deer in the fern,
Yon cloud of rooks the plough'd field o'er,
The river-watching hern,
The pheasant in the lofty wood,—
And all God's creatures free
To roam through earth and air and flood,—
These are not property.
The red deer in the fern,
Yon cloud of rooks the plough'd field o'er,
The river-watching hern,
The pheasant in the lofty wood,—
And all God's creatures free
To roam through earth and air and flood,—
These are not property.
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But earth, its mines, its thousand streams,—
And air's uncounted waves,
Freighted with gold and silver beams
To brighten lowliest graves,—
The mountain-cleaving waterfall,—
The ever-restless sea,—
God gave to, not a few, but all,
As common property.
And air's uncounted waves,
Freighted with gold and silver beams
To brighten lowliest graves,—
The mountain-cleaving waterfall,—
The ever-restless sea,—
God gave to, not a few, but all,
As common property.
What thou hast grown, or nurtured,—that
Thou well may'st call thine own:
Thy horse, thy kine, thy household cat,—
The harvest thou hast sown.
But earth belongeth to the whole,—
God gave it not to thee;
Nor made the meanest human soul
Another's property.
Thou well may'st call thine own:
Thy horse, thy kine, thy household cat,—
The harvest thou hast sown.
But earth belongeth to the whole,—
God gave it not to thee;
Nor made the meanest human soul
Another's property.
HOW IT WAS STOLEN
Come, tell us, said Bob to Dick—his pal,
How you stole the poor man's spade!
There's honour 'mong thieves, we know, for all
There's none between two of a trade.
What matters the method now, said he:
And indeed I scarcely know
If 'twere taken by force or roguery,—
I had it so long ago.
How you stole the poor man's spade!
There's honour 'mong thieves, we know, for all
There's none between two of a trade.
What matters the method now, said he:
And indeed I scarcely know
If 'twere taken by force or roguery,—
I had it so long ago.
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And perhaps I did not steal it at all,
But bought it of one who had:
Your buyer of stolen goods men call
A respectable dealer, lad!
You see there's a mighty difference:
While I hang for stealing a horse,
The burly justice looks over a “fence,”—
For that's only a thing of course.
But bought it of one who had:
Your buyer of stolen goods men call
A respectable dealer, lad!
You see there's a mighty difference:
While I hang for stealing a horse,
The burly justice looks over a “fence,”—
For that's only a thing of course.
But tell us, said one who was passing by
How you stole the poor man's land:
For you left him the spade. Dick wink'd his eye:
How the deuce could he understand?—
The inquest sat on the highway-side:
Dick gave the crowner a nod;
And his pals return'd that—the poor man died
“By the visitation of God.”
How you stole the poor man's land:
For you left him the spade. Dick wink'd his eye:
How the deuce could he understand?—
The inquest sat on the highway-side:
Dick gave the crowner a nod;
And his pals return'd that—the poor man died
“By the visitation of God.”
BURTHENS
Claimer of the “right of ages,”
Poring over “deeds” unroll'd!
Turn to the historic pages
Where ancestral worth is told.
Read how feudal landlords render'd
Homage for their acres' yield,
By continual service, tender'd
Both in council and in field.
Poring over “deeds” unroll'd!
Turn to the historic pages
Where ancestral worth is told.
Read how feudal landlords render'd
Homage for their acres' yield,
By continual service, tender'd
Both in council and in field.
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How they, maugre brutal wassails
And rude crimes scarce mention'd now,
Arm'd and led their warrior vassals,
Fed the holder of the plough;
How they did rule, if unkindly,
Those below them; how they own'd
Duty to the State, though blindly
Paid to any chance-enthroned.
And rude crimes scarce mention'd now,
Arm'd and led their warrior vassals,
Fed the holder of the plough;
How they did rule, if unkindly,
Those below them; how they own'd
Duty to the State, though blindly
Paid to any chance-enthroned.
One by one your several burdens
On our shoulders you have laid;
Yet you beg the olden guerdons,
Olden services unpaid.
Feed us, but in famine season!
Bear the charges of your wars!
Give the starved—at least a reason!
Show us, Chief! your noble scars.
On our shoulders you have laid;
Yet you beg the olden guerdons,
Olden services unpaid.
Feed us, but in famine season!
Bear the charges of your wars!
Give the starved—at least a reason!
Show us, Chief! your noble scars.
Claimer of the “right of ages”!
Nought for nought is oldest law:
Work is elder-born than Wages,
Though your blood have scarce a flaw.
Base descendant of the Landed,
Heir of only ancient greed,
Empty-headed, robber-handed!
Labour tears thy title-deed.
Nought for nought is oldest law:
Work is elder-born than Wages,
Though your blood have scarce a flaw.
Base descendant of the Landed,
Heir of only ancient greed,
Empty-headed, robber-handed!
Labour tears thy title-deed.
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THE KNAVE OF SPADES
What gambling Graspall might have done,
With common sense or heart
To learn the truth that all are one
And each of all a part!—
But Graspall, “hedging” on the Turf,
Mortgaged his native glades;
And staked the fortunes of the Serf
Against the Knave of Spades.
With common sense or heart
To learn the truth that all are one
And each of all a part!—
But Graspall, “hedging” on the Turf,
Mortgaged his native glades;
And staked the fortunes of the Serf
Against the Knave of Spades.
Had Graspall cared for good advice!—
Pshaw, man! while Rent gave him
Wine, women, horses, cards and dice,
Advice was not his whim.
Ill cards,—he rack'd his tenants then;
Paid loaded dice with raids:
And lost the lead of honest men,
To play the Knave of Spades.
Pshaw, man! while Rent gave him
Wine, women, horses, cards and dice,
Advice was not his whim.
Ill cards,—he rack'd his tenants then;
Paid loaded dice with raids:
And lost the lead of honest men,
To play the Knave of Spades.
Fool! will it now advantage thee
To think thou couldst have been
The lord of grateful tenantry?
Thou Meanest of the Mean!
You might have bless'd our country parts,
And—highest of all grades—
Have been the royal King of Hearts,
Not the mere Knave of Spades.
To think thou couldst have been
The lord of grateful tenantry?
Thou Meanest of the Mean!
You might have bless'd our country parts,
And—highest of all grades—
Have been the royal King of Hearts,
Not the mere Knave of Spades.
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THE CONTRAST
Fitzsteal was his father's heir, flash'd his gold at school,
Drove through College tandem, took his full degree as fool,—
In his rich uncultured rankness grew like foulest weed:—
Labour, peasant-litter'd, had no schoolmaster but Need.
Drove through College tandem, took his full degree as fool,—
In his rich uncultured rankness grew like foulest weed:—
Labour, peasant-litter'd, had no schoolmaster but Need.
Fitzsteal hath his racing stud,—his mares are thoroughbred;
His dogs are plump, his horses sleek, his stable boys are fed;
Fitzsteal hath his foreign cook, his foreign whore and wine:—
Labour's wife and children on the veriest refuse dine
His dogs are plump, his horses sleek, his stable boys are fed;
Fitzsteal hath his foreign cook, his foreign whore and wine:—
Labour's wife and children on the veriest refuse dine
Fitzsteal hath an indigestion,—twice in every day
Sir Henry calls to feel his pulse, to chat, and take his pay:—
In their wretched hovel, where the wind and rain slip through,
Labour's family lie dying,—if the Union doctor knew.
Sir Henry calls to feel his pulse, to chat, and take his pay:—
In their wretched hovel, where the wind and rain slip through,
Labour's family lie dying,—if the Union doctor knew.
Fitzsteal hath his miles of coal,—you and I must pay
Double for our winter fire, to keep him “warm” at play;
Fitzsteal rents the very bog where Labour digs his peat:—
Matters little to the cripple, with his frozen feet.
Double for our winter fire, to keep him “warm” at play;
Fitzsteal rents the very bog where Labour digs his peat:—
Matters little to the cripple, with his frozen feet.
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Fitzsteal losses hath at cards,—his creditors complain;
He raises rents, and sharply bids his jackal to distrain:—
Labour's black potato crop is seized,—they even sell
His old flock bed; Fitzsteal's awake the night long at his “hell.”
He raises rents, and sharply bids his jackal to distrain:—
Labour's black potato crop is seized,—they even sell
His old flock bed; Fitzsteal's awake the night long at his “hell.”
Fitzsteal hath his house in town, with liveried slaves to wait,—
His blazon'd carriage, should it please his Lordship ride in state:—
Driven from the road-side ditch, where he had piled a shed,
Houseless Labour hath no where that he can lay his head.
His blazon'd carriage, should it please his Lordship ride in state:—
Driven from the road-side ditch, where he had piled a shed,
Houseless Labour hath no where that he can lay his head.
Fitzsteal, dying in his palace, full of years and bread,
In his fathers' tomb is laid, with brass above his head:—
Labour's children, fever-murder'd, on a dung-heap lie;
Labour may be coffin'd in the poor-house by and bye.
In his fathers' tomb is laid, with brass above his head:—
Labour's children, fever-murder'd, on a dung-heap lie;
Labour may be coffin'd in the poor-house by and bye.
Fitzsteal was Sir Richard's heir, has never toil'd a day;
Are there improvements on his lands, for them the tenants pay:—
Labour never rested yet. Is all the difference this—
That Labour cultivates the land and Fitzsteal calls it his?
Are there improvements on his lands, for them the tenants pay:—
Labour never rested yet. Is all the difference this—
That Labour cultivates the land and Fitzsteal calls it his?
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EXPORTS
Ship your grain and starve the sower!
Sell your beasts in foreign ports!
Will your labourers die the slower,
Feeding on Lord Ruffian's orts?
Quote your “exports” in “the House,”
Prove the land at least is rich;
Join hands on it and carouse,
While Toil starveth in a ditch!
Sell your beasts in foreign ports!
Will your labourers die the slower,
Feeding on Lord Ruffian's orts?
Quote your “exports” in “the House,”
Prove the land at least is rich;
Join hands on it and carouse,
While Toil starveth in a ditch!
Meat,—Good God! the serf is dainty;
Wheat,—But that is freemen's bread;
Oats,—Perhaps the crop was scanty,
Greedy's horses must be fed.
“See my favourite mare, that roan!
“Thorough blood,—You dog! to dare
“To stint her corn.” Who heard the moan
Of Famine in the harvest air?
Wheat,—But that is freemen's bread;
Oats,—Perhaps the crop was scanty,
Greedy's horses must be fed.
“See my favourite mare, that roan!
“Thorough blood,—You dog! to dare
“To stint her corn.” Who heard the moan
Of Famine in the harvest air?
“Grain,—what! meant to feed a nation?
“Sir! grown on my land, my grain,
“By wretches owe me rent? Damnation!
“Tell my reptile to distrain!”
Ship your grain and starve the grower!
Men are beasts,—or in our ports
Exportation might be slower,
And Lord Ruffian feed on orts.
“Sir! grown on my land, my grain,
“By wretches owe me rent? Damnation!
“Tell my reptile to distrain!”
Ship your grain and starve the grower!
Men are beasts,—or in our ports
Exportation might be slower,
And Lord Ruffian feed on orts.
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FREE TRADE
But “free trade,—demand, supply:”
Freight your ships with human woe!
Is free trade then half a lie?
Ask of Cobden, Poland's foe.
Why not trade in Freedom's blood?
Why not barter Right for gain?
Let a Nation pine for food,
While old Mildew hoards his grain.
Freight your ships with human woe!
Is free trade then half a lie?
Ask of Cobden, Poland's foe.
Why not trade in Freedom's blood?
Why not barter Right for gain?
Let a Nation pine for food,
While old Mildew hoards his grain.
Free to sell, and free to buy,—
Free to toil for famine wage;
Free to reap, and free to die,—
Famish'd youth and foodless age.
“Export” should not mean despoil.
“Free trade,”—let the words be true:
Free and fair trade on the soil;
And export grain and landlords too!
Free to toil for famine wage;
Free to reap, and free to die,—
Famish'd youth and foodless age.
“Export” should not mean despoil.
“Free trade,”—let the words be true:
Free and fair trade on the soil;
And export grain and landlords too!
CROP-LIFTING
The bailiffs are lock'd in the barn;
Pile up the sheaves in the cart!
They'll hardly have leisure King Grind to warn:
We have stolen at least a start.
Quick! fork the sheaves up! ho, boys!
Stout arms has willing heart:
The neighbours are steady,
The corn is quite ready;
Pile up the sheaves, boys! ho, boys!
We'll count them as we go.
Pile up the sheaves in the cart!
They'll hardly have leisure King Grind to warn:
We have stolen at least a start.
Quick! fork the sheaves up! ho, boys!
Stout arms has willing heart:
47
The corn is quite ready;
Pile up the sheaves, boys! ho, boys!
We'll count them as we go.
But the barn's old roof was flaw'd;
The bailiffs have stolen through:
King Grind and his troops were all abroad,
Or ever the first cock crew.
Quick! drive the horses on, boys!
If old King Grind but knew
The way we are going;—
But, an he were knowing?
Quick! drive the horses on, boys!
By God, we'll stay for none.
The bailiffs have stolen through:
King Grind and his troops were all abroad,
Or ever the first cock crew.
Quick! drive the horses on, boys!
If old King Grind but knew
The way we are going;—
But, an he were knowing?
Quick! drive the horses on, boys!
By God, we'll stay for none.
What stops the gap in the hedge?
The dogs are not at fault:
And the musket-bore and the sabre-edge
Make even the boldest halt.
Yet “drive the horses through, boys!”
'Twas only a moment's halt.
'Tis the voice of one dying.—
The red blood is lying
Where late the harvest grew, boys!
The harvest of the Few.
The dogs are not at fault:
And the musket-bore and the sabre-edge
Make even the boldest halt.
Yet “drive the horses through, boys!”
'Twas only a moment's halt.
'Tis the voice of one dying.—
The red blood is lying
Where late the harvest grew, boys!
The harvest of the Few.
48
LYING FALLOW
English Serf, Distrust grown sallow,
Crops his ground in dread;
Wears it out: why care for fallow?
Reap the quicker bread!
Murder's waste is Irish fallow:
Doubt ne'er makes his bed.
Crops his ground in dread;
Wears it out: why care for fallow?
Reap the quicker bread!
Murder's waste is Irish fallow:
Doubt ne'er makes his bed.
Landed Ass! if wastes are fallows,
Shear thy golden fleece!
Hang your scarecrow on a gallows:
Never mind a lease!
Folly's fields are always fallows:
Whose is their increase?
Shear thy golden fleece!
Hang your scarecrow on a gallows:
Never mind a lease!
Folly's fields are always fallows:
Whose is their increase?
Who would plough for swine to wallow
Where the corn should be?
Earth! when shall thy waste be fallow,
And thy children free?
Hungry Toil! when Justice Shallow
Marries Hope to thee.
Where the corn should be?
Earth! when shall thy waste be fallow,
And thy children free?
Hungry Toil! when Justice Shallow
Marries Hope to thee.
THE MIDDLEMAN
Landlord's child is Middleman:
John the Puny knows
How the race that Great began
Into Little goes.
Even giants vermin breed,
Quote “the tyrant's plea”:
Middleman hath also “need,”
Vermin though he be.
John the Puny knows
How the race that Great began
Into Little goes.
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Quote “the tyrant's plea”:
Middleman hath also “need,”
Vermin though he be.
Middleman can pay his rent;
Pays it when 'tis due:
If his gain is cent-per-cent,
What is that to you?
May God bless all vermin, then,
Giant born and fed!
But let us be, good Middlemen!
And live where you were bred.
Pays it when 'tis due:
If his gain is cent-per-cent,
What is that to you?
May God bless all vermin, then,
Giant born and fed!
But let us be, good Middlemen!
And live where you were bred.
EVICTION
Long years their hovel stood
Out on the moor:
More than one sorrow-brood
Pass'd through that door:
Ruin them overcast,
Worse than the wintry blast;
Famine's plague follow'd fast:
God help the Poor!
Out on the moor:
More than one sorrow-brood
Pass'd through that door:
Ruin them overcast,
Worse than the wintry blast;
Famine's plague follow'd fast:
God help the Poor!
There, on that heap of fern,
Gasping for breath,
Lieth the wretched kern,
Waiting for death:
Famine had brought him low;
Fever had caught him so:
O, thou sharp-griding woe!
Outwear thy sheath.
Gasping for breath,
Lieth the wretched kern,
Waiting for death:
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Fever had caught him so:
O, thou sharp-griding woe!
Outwear thy sheath.
Dying or living there,
Which is the worse?
Misery's heavy tear,
Back to thy source!
Who dares to lift her head
Up from the scarcely dead?
Who pulls the crazy shed
Down on the corse?
Which is the worse?
Misery's heavy tear,
Back to thy source!
Who dares to lift her head
Up from the scarcely dead?
Who pulls the crazy shed
Down on the corse?
What though some rent was due,—
Hast thou no grace?
So may God pardon you,
Shame of your race!
What though that home might be
Wretched and foul to see,—
What if God harry thee
Forth from his face?
Hast thou no grace?
So may God pardon you,
Shame of your race!
What though that home might be
Wretched and foul to see,—
What if God harry thee
Forth from his face?
Widow'd and orphan'd ones,
Flung from your nest!
Where will you lay your bones?
Bad was your best.
Out on the dreary road,
Where shall be their abode?
One of them sleeps with God:—
Where are the rest?
Flung from your nest!
Where will you lay your bones?
Bad was your best.
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Where shall be their abode?
One of them sleeps with God:—
Where are the rest?
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?
AT BAY
Potatoes are rotting:
Rottener foes
The land are blotting;
The corn yet grows:
Up, brothers mine! are not your sickles keen?
And the wheat ears are not green.
Rottener foes
The land are blotting;
The corn yet grows:
Up, brothers mine! are not your sickles keen?
And the wheat ears are not green.
Potatoes are failing:
Hark to the Hours!
Listen to Famine's wailing!—
The corn is ours.
Forth, O my brothers! forth with sickles keen!
What do you wait to glean?
Hark to the Hours!
Listen to Famine's wailing!—
The corn is ours.
Forth, O my brothers! forth with sickles keen!
What do you wait to glean?
True men despairing!
The corn yet stands;
Yet waits your daring:—
O famish'd Lands!
Forth to the harvest; let your sickles keen
Gleam the red shocks between.
The corn yet stands;
Yet waits your daring:—
O famish'd Lands!
Forth to the harvest; let your sickles keen
Gleam the red shocks between.
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.
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“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.
THE POOR-HOUSE
Where the aged and infirm, and the worn or crippled, rest!
Where stout-limb'd Laziness may bask as in a sunny nest!
Good friend! or good economist! may it please you look within,
And note what alms are given in this Lazar-house of Sin.
Where stout-limb'd Laziness may bask as in a sunny nest!
Good friend! or good economist! may it please you look within,
And note what alms are given in this Lazar-house of Sin.
Where the fever'd and the outworn and the plunder'd,—yes! the poor,—
May lie, we'll say, more pleasantly than at the rich man's door;
Where Hunger hath his grudging dole, and Grief at least may hide—
Not to distress the gentlefolk upon the world's wayside.
May lie, we'll say, more pleasantly than at the rich man's door;
55
Not to distress the gentlefolk upon the world's wayside.
Where Man forgets his manhood, to become a stolid slave;
Where Wifehood is forbidden,—is there marriage in the grave?
Where the Child (God's wither'd children!) has no childishness at all,
But that stare of worse than brutishness, that scarcely knows its stall.
Where Wifehood is forbidden,—is there marriage in the grave?
Where the Child (God's wither'd children!) has no childishness at all,
But that stare of worse than brutishness, that scarcely knows its stall.
Where Age dies all unsolaced; where the living slave is tomb'd;
Where Vice may play with nurslings; where Decrepitude is womb'd;
Where Hate grins like an idiot; and Despair could hardly hear
The tramp of the Archangel, the Avenger thundering near.
Where Vice may play with nurslings; where Decrepitude is womb'd;
Where Hate grins like an idiot; and Despair could hardly hear
The tramp of the Archangel, the Avenger thundering near.
PAUPER CHILDREN
Dwarfish, famish'd, and weakly stooping,
Bloodless fingers beside them drooping,
Listless, lifeless, and nothing hoping,—
Pauper babes are these:
Smileless, agèd, and woe-begone,
With the prominent jaws of the skeleton,
And filmy eyes, and faces brown—
Like the face of a beast—with horrible down:—
Look on them, Landlord! look and own,
Not flesh of thy flesh, but bone of thy bone,
Stalks from the seed which thou hast sown,
Thine by thy Famine-wife, Heart-of-stone!
Begetter of miseries!
Lo, where Body-and-soul-starvation,
Idiot-grinning Emaciation,
Is nursing the youth of the nation!
Bloodless fingers beside them drooping,
Listless, lifeless, and nothing hoping,—
Pauper babes are these:
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With the prominent jaws of the skeleton,
And filmy eyes, and faces brown—
Like the face of a beast—with horrible down:—
Look on them, Landlord! look and own,
Not flesh of thy flesh, but bone of thy bone,
Stalks from the seed which thou hast sown,
Thine by thy Famine-wife, Heart-of-stone!
Begetter of miseries!
Lo, where Body-and-soul-starvation,
Idiot-grinning Emaciation,
Is nursing the youth of the nation!
Worse than the toad beneath the harrow,
Worse than a starved sow's starving farrow,—
God, who marketh the meanest sparrow,
Cares he not for these?
Ay! God careth: but what dost thou?
Landed Cain, with the branded brow,
Who rivèst the heart with famine's plough,
Strewing wild hate where grain should grow.
Curse him loudly! but tremble too,
For the curse returneth again to you
Whose wrath stood by while your fellow slew,—
Murder's Accomplice the whole week through!
Hypocrite on thy knees,
Grumbling that time will make all things even,
Mumbling one profitless day in seven—
“Of such is the kingdom of heaven!”
Worse than a starved sow's starving farrow,—
God, who marketh the meanest sparrow,
Cares he not for these?
Ay! God careth: but what dost thou?
Landed Cain, with the branded brow,
Who rivèst the heart with famine's plough,
Strewing wild hate where grain should grow.
Curse him loudly! but tremble too,
For the curse returneth again to you
Whose wrath stood by while your fellow slew,—
Murder's Accomplice the whole week through!
Hypocrite on thy knees,
Grumbling that time will make all things even,
Mumbling one profitless day in seven—
“Of such is the kingdom of heaven!”
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!
NET RESULTS
Poaching Jem, the keeper's bastard,
Swears enough for five:
Red-arm'd Joe is but a dastard,—
Left the man alive;
Never fired the other barrel
When the first one hung.
Mark him! Dead men never quarrel.
Damn your peaching tongue!
Swears enough for five:
Red-arm'd Joe is but a dastard,—
Left the man alive;
Never fired the other barrel
When the first one hung.
Mark him! Dead men never quarrel.
Damn your peaching tongue!
60
Sam works hard, is strong and “willing,”—
God, he knows the need:
Week by week for every shilling
Is a mouth to feed.
Breaks his back: “Well! there's the parish.”
After thirty years
For one master? Times are fairish:
Thriftless never fears.
God, he knows the need:
Week by week for every shilling
Is a mouth to feed.
Breaks his back: “Well! there's the parish.”
After thirty years
For one master? Times are fairish:
Thriftless never fears.
Sam's wife, child-worn, labour-harried,
Looks “a crazy hag.”
—“She was comely when she married.”
—“How these long days lag.”
—“Who'd have thought so? You said comely?”
—Yes, my Lord! indeed:
Though her Grace might look but homely
Hid in rustic weed.
Looks “a crazy hag.”
—“She was comely when she married.”
—“How these long days lag.”
—“Who'd have thought so? You said comely?”
—Yes, my Lord! indeed:
Though her Grace might look but homely
Hid in rustic weed.
Sam's Jane takes her master's fancy,
Flaunts in satin gown;
Dies a Covent-Garden pansy,
Trodden by the town.
Sam's Bill weeds for broken victuals;
Jem sets wires and skulks;
Jem's Bob drinks his gains at skittles;
Jacob's at the hulks.
Flaunts in satin gown;
Dies a Covent-Garden pansy,
Trodden by the town.
Sam's Bill weeds for broken victuals;
Jem sets wires and skulks;
Jem's Bob drinks his gains at skittles;
Jacob's at the hulks.
61
Parish-married Hannah sigheth
For a widow'd bed;
Hannah's idiot daughter dieth;
Other twain are dead.
Monday week the Club will pay her:
This will make up thrice.
John the fourth, if nothing stay her.
Hannah poisons mice.
For a widow'd bed;
Hannah's idiot daughter dieth;
Other twain are dead.
Monday week the Club will pay her:
This will make up thrice.
John the fourth, if nothing stay her.
Hannah poisons mice.
Sunday-School may mend their morals:
True, when trees grow beef.
Landlord's babies suck their corals
On a coral reef.
Patch old Etna, patent Lacquer!
Hold red Lava down!
Make God's Priest your under-knacker!—
And so keep “your own!”
True, when trees grow beef.
Landlord's babies suck their corals
On a coral reef.
Patch old Etna, patent Lacquer!
Hold red Lava down!
Make God's Priest your under-knacker!—
And so keep “your own!”
SLAVES AND SERFS
Our masters, in the good old times when slavery was known,
Devour'd as now the toiler's meat, but flung him many a bone:
Nay! some, whom men bread-givers call'd, afforded bread also.
But those were days of slavery, a long time ago.
Devour'd as now the toiler's meat, but flung him many a bone:
Nay! some, whom men bread-givers call'd, afforded bread also.
But those were days of slavery, a long time ago.
62
The slave was scourged, but was the whip made of his heart-strings too?
He had no wife nor pining babes: how much more bless'd than you!
He knew not blighted hopes, nor fears, which serfs call'd freemen know,—
In those kind days of slavery, a long time ago.
He had no wife nor pining babes: how much more bless'd than you!
He knew not blighted hopes, nor fears, which serfs call'd freemen know,—
In those kind days of slavery, a long time ago.
They do not sell us like the beasts, nor build with human bone;
They do not brand us on the brow, nor call our souls their own;
'Tis true we have outgrown all that. We hunger as we grow.
O, better far the slavery of a long time ago!
They do not brand us on the brow, nor call our souls their own;
'Tis true we have outgrown all that. We hunger as we grow.
O, better far the slavery of a long time ago!
Yet will we grow! God speed the day when serfdom too shall cease;
When Toil, avenging martyr lives, shall reap the children's peace.
Our children's children shall not dream, as they tow'rd heaven grow,
Of the days of worse than slavery, “a long time ago.”
When Toil, avenging martyr lives, shall reap the children's peace.
Our children's children shall not dream, as they tow'rd heaven grow,
Of the days of worse than slavery, “a long time ago.”
63
EMIGRANTS.
We'll not forget you! Mother!
In the land that's far away;
We'll think of you, dear! at our work,
And bless you when we pray.
Look cheerly, that your smile may be
Before me night and day,
On our long journey o'er the sea
To the land that's far away.
Stay those sobs of woe;
Smoothe thine hair so grey:
'Twill wring my heart to see thee so,
In the land that's far away.
In the land that's far away;
We'll think of you, dear! at our work,
And bless you when we pray.
Look cheerly, that your smile may be
Before me night and day,
On our long journey o'er the sea
To the land that's far away.
Stay those sobs of woe;
Smoothe thine hair so grey:
'Twill wring my heart to see thee so,
In the land that's far away.
You'll tend the white rose, Mother!
On our little Nelly's grave:
I can not help these foolish tears,—
And yet I'm very brave.
And you'll take care of Tom's dog, poor thing!
And Nelly's skylark too;
And think, whene'er you hear him sing,
He sings of us to you.
Nay! look calmly, do!
Mother! Mother! pray:
How will I bear to dream of you
In the land that's far away?
On our little Nelly's grave:
I can not help these foolish tears,—
And yet I'm very brave.
And you'll take care of Tom's dog, poor thing!
And Nelly's skylark too;
And think, whene'er you hear him sing,
He sings of us to you.
Nay! look calmly, do!
Mother! Mother! pray:
How will I bear to dream of you
In the land that's far away?
64
We'll write so often, Mother!
And Father—he can read;
And you'll get some neighbour write to us,
To say if you're in need.
And tell us how you bear the cold;
If Father's lameness mends,—
Dear life! he's not so very old;
And God will bring you friends.
O, this parting pain!
Mother, darling! pray
Let me see you smile again
Before I go away!
And Father—he can read;
And you'll get some neighbour write to us,
To say if you're in need.
And tell us how you bear the cold;
If Father's lameness mends,—
Dear life! he's not so very old;
And God will bring you friends.
O, this parting pain!
Mother, darling! pray
Let me see you smile again
Before I go away!
We'll save our earnings, Mother!
To help your failing years;
And some day come back to you, love!
And kiss away your tears.
Who knows but we may send for you?
You'll live to see that day:
O, mother darling! bear it through
While we are far away.
Stay those sobs of woe!
Smoothe thine hair so grey!
'Twill wring my heart to leave thee so,
In the land that's far away.
To help your failing years;
And some day come back to you, love!
And kiss away your tears.
Who knows but we may send for you?
You'll live to see that day:
O, mother darling! bear it through
While we are far away.
Stay those sobs of woe!
Smoothe thine hair so grey!
'Twill wring my heart to leave thee so,
In the land that's far away.
65
EMIGRATION
Stoops the sun behind the ocean;
Darker shadows hide the bay;
And the last weak words are spoken
From heart-breaking to heart-broken,
As the ship gets under weigh.
Now the yellow moon is waning
On the dim and lessening strand:
Darkly speeds “The Exile,” draining
The life-blood of the land.
Darker shadows hide the bay;
And the last weak words are spoken
From heart-breaking to heart-broken,
As the ship gets under weigh.
Now the yellow moon is waning
On the dim and lessening strand:
Darkly speeds “The Exile,” draining
The life-blood of the land.
Reck not Youth's intense emotion,
Weeping Love, or white-brow'd Care;
Look on Manhood spirit-broken,
On the dark signs that betoken
Progress of the plague Despair.
Hopeless are the dim eyes straining
Tow'rd that woe-worn pilgrim band:
Darkly speeds “The Exile,” draining
The life-blood of the land.
Weeping Love, or white-brow'd Care;
Look on Manhood spirit-broken,
On the dark signs that betoken
Progress of the plague Despair.
Hopeless are the dim eyes straining
Tow'rd that woe-worn pilgrim band:
Darkly speeds “The Exile,” draining
The life-blood of the land.
Yet the patriot's life-devotion—
Fierce and bitter his reply:—
“Love is mindful, by the token
“That his young hopes, famine-broken,
“In yon clouded grave-yard lie.
“Dead, as dogs die, scarce complaining—
“Let us quit the accursèd strand!”—
Darkly speeds “The Exile,” draining
The life-blood of the land.
Fierce and bitter his reply:—
“Love is mindful, by the token
“That his young hopes, famine-broken,
“In yon clouded grave-yard lie.
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“Let us quit the accursèd strand!”—
Darkly speeds “The Exile,” draining
The life-blood of the land.
PATRIOTISM
Love of Country!—Love of Ruin!
Case thy heart in triple steel!—
Yet Love quits not Her he knew in
Days of loveliness and weal.—
Days we knew not. To our thinking
Patience looks too like despair.
Save yourself! the ship is sinking:
Leave the wreck to perish there.
Case thy heart in triple steel!—
Yet Love quits not Her he knew in
Days of loveliness and weal.—
Days we knew not. To our thinking
Patience looks too like despair.
Save yourself! the ship is sinking:
Leave the wreck to perish there.
It may be that brave hearts linger,
Some proud captain to the last:
Yonder foaming wave will wring her,
Stem and stern; she's breaking fast.
We are tired of battling ever
With disaster's whelming sea:
We are weary of endeavour;
Let us die among the free!
Some proud captain to the last:
Yonder foaming wave will wring her,
Stem and stern; she's breaking fast.
We are tired of battling ever
With disaster's whelming sea:
We are weary of endeavour;
Let us die among the free!
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PATRIOTS
Where, my Country! are thy zealots?
Where thy freemen? Echo saith:
Yonder crowds of famish'd helots
Have no country, have no faith.
What to them the deathless story,
Page historic, scroll of fame?
What have they to do with glory?
Can they lower sink than shame?
Where thy freemen? Echo saith:
Yonder crowds of famish'd helots
Have no country, have no faith.
What to them the deathless story,
Page historic, scroll of fame?
What have they to do with glory?
Can they lower sink than shame?
Give the serf a freeman's station,
Root him firmly in the soil,—
He'll not then desert his nation,
Chary of his blood or toil.
Swinehood, with or wanting victual,
Patriot duty,—what care they?
When your country's but a spital,
Who but Wretchedness will stay?
Root him firmly in the soil,—
He'll not then desert his nation,
Chary of his blood or toil.
Swinehood, with or wanting victual,
Patriot duty,—what care they?
When your country's but a spital,
Who but Wretchedness will stay?
Where, my Country! are thy zealots?
Fellow-patriots! answer me:
We were something worse than helots
If we dared not to be free.
Then, though flame from Hell enwreathed us,
We'd not flinch, the while we stood
On the land our sires bequeath'd us,
To quench peril, even in blood.
Fellow-patriots! answer me:
We were something worse than helots
If we dared not to be free.
Then, though flame from Hell enwreathed us,
We'd not flinch, the while we stood
On the land our sires bequeath'd us,
To quench peril, even in blood.
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THE WAY OUT
Hold together, flinch for nought!
Set thy foot by mine, my brother!
Shield of each one shade the other!
Well-resolved is bravely fought:
Well-begun is half-way wrought;
Hold together, halt for nought!
Set thy foot by mine, my brother!
Shield of each one shade the other!
Well-resolved is bravely fought:
Well-begun is half-way wrought;
Hold together, halt for nought!
Hold together, flinch for nought!
Let our hearts beat close together!
Love can fence the foulest weather:
Faith o'erflies the runner Thought:
Fairly aim'd is fairly caught:
Hold together, halt for nought!
Let our hearts beat close together!
Love can fence the foulest weather:
Faith o'erflies the runner Thought:
Fairly aim'd is fairly caught:
Hold together, halt for nought!
Hold together, flinch for nought!
Right and Will are friend and brother:
We'll take counsel of none other!
True as steel is Captain Ought.
Worth is won wherever sought:
Hold together, halt for nought!
Right and Will are friend and brother:
We'll take counsel of none other!
True as steel is Captain Ought.
Worth is won wherever sought:
Hold together, halt for nought!
COMPENSATION
Yonder Lord cries “Compensation!”
Compensate! cry we.
And the compensated Nation
Owes—how much to thee?
Landlord's cousin, Thimblerigger,
He too hath old claims to press:
While we compensate the bigger,
Shall we starve the less?
Compensate! cry we.
And the compensated Nation
Owes—how much to thee?
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He too hath old claims to press:
While we compensate the bigger,
Shall we starve the less?
Turpin, lord of Nimblehand,
Robbeth where he may;
Filcheth purses, stealeth land,
On the king's highway.
Hang the rascal for the purse;
But for the land he stole—
Vote him feathers on his hearse
And masses for his soul!
Robbeth where he may;
Filcheth purses, stealeth land,
On the king's highway.
Hang the rascal for the purse;
But for the land he stole—
Vote him feathers on his hearse
And masses for his soul!
Thimblerigger's compensation,
When you stop his trade,
Should be more than mere starvation:—
Give the rogue a spade!
Contra—read “arrears of wages”:
Landlord! filch'd by thine and thee.
Who shall compensate thy ages?
Murder'd Industry!
When you stop his trade,
Should be more than mere starvation:—
Give the rogue a spade!
Contra—read “arrears of wages”:
Landlord! filch'd by thine and thee.
Who shall compensate thy ages?
Murder'd Industry!
COMPROMISE
When the Patriarch with the Angel
Wrestled till the break of day,
Trusted he but one evangel—
Grapple closely, come what may!
Though the Angel lamed and threw him,
Yet his strong grip never quail'd,
Till the blessing bow'd unto him.
So of old high hearts prevail'd
Wrestled till the break of day,
Trusted he but one evangel—
Grapple closely, come what may!
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Yet his strong grip never quail'd,
Till the blessing bow'd unto him.
So of old high hearts prevail'd
Wrestling with the fiend Oppression,
In the shadow of the day,
Lame thyself with no concession;
Grapple closely, come what may!
Fling him! set thy foot upon him!—
Fool! that but a moment fail'd:
Firmer tread had kept thee on him,
And thy destiny prevail'd.
In the shadow of the day,
Lame thyself with no concession;
Grapple closely, come what may!
Fling him! set thy foot upon him!—
Fool! that but a moment fail'd:
Firmer tread had kept thee on him,
And thy destiny prevail'd.
SWING
“We are betray'd: what matters unto us
“Their surer bargain? we must bear the same.
“They could not see our miseries: light them thus!
“Mayhap they'll read them by yon granary's flame.
“We'll trust to no one now but Captain Torch:
“Let ‘Too-far’ bargain with him, at his porch!”
“Their surer bargain? we must bear the same.
“They could not see our miseries: light them thus!
“Mayhap they'll read them by yon granary's flame.
“We'll trust to no one now but Captain Torch:
“Let ‘Too-far’ bargain with him, at his porch!”
Ay! there is water, plenty,—handy too;
And men: if only will to help were here.
But savage crowds stand round who bandy you
Ill words of hate and bitter gibe and jeer.
“You'll feel, may be, for others while you scorch:
“Ha! ha! he listens now to Goodman Torch!”
And men: if only will to help were here.
But savage crowds stand round who bandy you
Ill words of hate and bitter gibe and jeer.
“You'll feel, may be, for others while you scorch:
“Ha! ha! he listens now to Goodman Torch!”
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House, barns, and stock consumed; and, look again!
Yon sky is lurid too; and there; and there!
Revenge, like a volcano's fiery rain,
Is scatter'd from the wild hands of Despair.
“We'll have no leader now but Captain Torch:
“They'll hear his smooth tongue whispering at their porch.
Yon sky is lurid too; and there; and there!
Revenge, like a volcano's fiery rain,
Is scatter'd from the wild hands of Despair.
“We'll have no leader now but Captain Torch:
“They'll hear his smooth tongue whispering at their porch.
“Too late!” “too late!”—Yet, ere the dream be true,
Bethink you how all interests are the same:
And Love, the Just, the Pitying, captain you!
I hear your answer: from warm hearts it came:
No mocking fiend shall whisper at our porch—
“The darkness of your deeds requires a torch!”
Bethink you how all interests are the same:
And Love, the Just, the Pitying, captain you!
I hear your answer: from warm hearts it came:
No mocking fiend shall whisper at our porch—
“The darkness of your deeds requires a torch!”
THE MECHANIC
Weaving Will may starve at work:
What doth Goldlord care?
Who calls Goldlord worse than Burke,
Landlord worse than Hare?
Gold says—“Done with, let him die!”
Landlord says the same:
Yet one “damns” monopoly,
One preserves his game.
What doth Goldlord care?
Who calls Goldlord worse than Burke,
Landlord worse than Hare?
Gold says—“Done with, let him die!”
Landlord says the same:
Yet one “damns” monopoly,
One preserves his game.
Weaving Will works day and night,
Hath his weekly wage;
Lives at best in sorry plight,
Starveth in old age.
Will's five children may not thieve,
Though Will's master may:
Stop the mill, and give them leave
To die on the highway!
Hath his weekly wage;
Lives at best in sorry plight,
Starveth in old age.
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Though Will's master may:
Stop the mill, and give them leave
To die on the highway!
Bread for work,—and work is not:
Let them die at once!
Idle Jem may be a sot,
Steady Tom a dunce.
Bread is scarce when land's untill'd,—
Trade has cheaper slaves:
Throng the town with toil unskill'd
And pestilential graves!
Let them die at once!
Idle Jem may be a sot,
Steady Tom a dunce.
Bread is scarce when land's untill'd,—
Trade has cheaper slaves:
Throng the town with toil unskill'd
And pestilential graves!
Will may starve before his loom,
Faint for lack of bread;
Seven are cramm'd in one close room,—
Fever makes their bed.
Yet those seven are England's heirs,
England's children born,—
Fourteen goodly acres theirs,
Growing golden corn.
Faint for lack of bread;
Seven are cramm'd in one close room,—
Fever makes their bed.
Yet those seven are England's heirs,
England's children born,—
Fourteen goodly acres theirs,
Growing golden corn.
What is that to Weaving Will?
What to Tom or Jem?
Wanting means and strength and skill,
What's the land to them?
Wherefore—let the land lie waste;
Overcrowd the town;
And farming Sam and Bob make haste
To pull our wages down!
What to Tom or Jem?
Wanting means and strength and skill,
What's the land to them?
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Overcrowd the town;
And farming Sam and Bob make haste
To pull our wages down!
Fourteen acres Will should own,
Yet he wanteth food:
Though he hath nor till'd nor sown,
Weaver-work is good.
What if Sam should hold the land,
Paying rent to Will?
Sam could work it bravely, and
The weaver eat his fill.
Yet he wanteth food:
Though he hath nor till'd nor sown,
Weaver-work is good.
What if Sam should hold the land,
Paying rent to Will?
Sam could work it bravely, and
The weaver eat his fill.
Why not? Ask of noble Greed!
Ask of them who hold
England's fields while English Need
Is Famine-bought and sold!
Ask the thirty thousand lords
Who bar you from the land;
But manly daring forge your words,
And when you ask, command!
Ask of them who hold
England's fields while English Need
Is Famine-bought and sold!
Ask the thirty thousand lords
Who bar you from the land;
But manly daring forge your words,
And when you ask, command!
Starved Mechanic, out on strike!
When thy breadless pine,
Think how landlords and the like
Murder thee and thine!
Lay your babes in pauper graves—
England's wronged heirs;
And know that Famine kill'd his slaves
While harvest land was theirs!
When thy breadless pine,
Think how landlords and the like
Murder thee and thine!
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England's wronged heirs;
And know that Famine kill'd his slaves
While harvest land was theirs!
THE SMALL SHOPKEEPER
Little Tradesman, thin and pale,
Rising from thy sleepless bed,
Weigh me ruin in thy scale,
Now thy customers are dead!
Sweep thy clean shop once again;
Stir the dust upon thy shelves;
Polish once more every pane;
Let thy spoil'd wares sun themselves!
Rising from thy sleepless bed,
Weigh me ruin in thy scale,
Now thy customers are dead!
Sweep thy clean shop once again;
Stir the dust upon thy shelves;
Polish once more every pane;
Let thy spoil'd wares sun themselves!
Wholesale Firm supplies “the House”
Serves his Lordship should he stay,
Tired perhaps of shooting grouse,
Having lost perchance at play.
We, the poor folk, dealt with you;
We made up your modest gains:
Though you then had “nought to do”
With our struggles or our pains.
Serves his Lordship should he stay,
Tired perhaps of shooting grouse,
Having lost perchance at play.
We, the poor folk, dealt with you;
We made up your modest gains:
Though you then had “nought to do”
With our struggles or our pains.
Shut thy shop, man! Nay, but wait!
Some one cometh. What! a frown?
Asks he for another rate?
Is the shilling now a crown?
And thy rent is yet unpaid,
Though they rate thee to the full.
Weigh me out the worth of Trade—
Duller even than the dull!
Some one cometh. What! a frown?
Asks he for another rate?
Is the shilling now a crown?
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Though they rate thee to the full.
Weigh me out the worth of Trade—
Duller even than the dull!
SAINT PATRICK
Ho, good Saint Patrick! at our need
Come back to us again;
And rid us of the vermin breed
That still devour our grain.
For vainly clear'dst thou deepest bogs
Of all the noxious crew:
Those Frenchmen brought not only frogs,
But locust-landlords too.
Come back to us again;
And rid us of the vermin breed
That still devour our grain.
For vainly clear'dst thou deepest bogs
Of all the noxious crew:
Those Frenchmen brought not only frogs,
But locust-landlords too.
If it be true that types of life
Repeat themselves on earth,
And Worth in olden ages rife
Lives yet in later Worth,—
O Hero! modernize thee then,
The People's Chief to be;
And drive these swarms of Middlemen
Into the Irish Sea!
Repeat themselves on earth,
And Worth in olden ages rife
Lives yet in later Worth,—
O Hero! modernize thee then,
The People's Chief to be;
And drive these swarms of Middlemen
Into the Irish Sea!
So shall they read their word of fear,
Like witches' prayers, reversed;
And of themselves the country “clear,”
On their own malice hearsed.
“But should Saint Patrick nothing heed
“Our call?” Then I and you
Must move with all the greater speed
The saintly work to do.
Like witches' prayers, reversed;
And of themselves the country “clear,”
On their own malice hearsed.
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“Our call?” Then I and you
Must move with all the greater speed
The saintly work to do.
THE SOLDIER
Halt! who asketh passage here?—
Freedom's heralds—they reply:
Lo, our blazonries are clear;
Soldier! we must hasten by.—
I can read them; but my orders
Are not less clear to my mind:
Back there! we are loyal warders,—
Say to those you left behind!
Freedom's heralds—they reply:
Lo, our blazonries are clear;
Soldier! we must hasten by.—
I can read them; but my orders
Are not less clear to my mind:
Back there! we are loyal warders,—
Say to those you left behind!
Halt! again, who passes there?—
Freedom's vanguard—the reply:
Freedom's harvest gifts we bear
For the Slaves of Poverty.
Soldier! thy old father lieth
Starving in thy peasant home.
Still the passage he denieth:
Back! return to whence ye come!
Freedom's vanguard—the reply:
Freedom's harvest gifts we bear
For the Slaves of Poverty.
Soldier! thy old father lieth
Starving in thy peasant home.
Still the passage he denieth:
Back! return to whence ye come!
Halt! again, who passes here?—
Freedom's host—the loud reply,
Like God's voice, so full and clear,—
Brethren sworn to pass or die.
Soldiers' oaths are—To the Nation:
'Tis her will that speaks through us;
Answer you our acclamation
With your shout unanimous!
Freedom's host—the loud reply,
Like God's voice, so full and clear,—
Brethren sworn to pass or die.
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'Tis her will that speaks through us;
Answer you our acclamation
With your shout unanimous!
Ring the muskets on the ground!
Pile your arms! no need of them!
Peaceful smiles are gleaming round,
Starring Freedom's diadem.
Who shall bar the Nation's Chosen?
Rusheth in the swollen sea:
Shall its crested waves be frozen
By thy breath? Finality!
Pile your arms! no need of them!
Peaceful smiles are gleaming round,
Starring Freedom's diadem.
Who shall bar the Nation's Chosen?
Rusheth in the swollen sea:
Shall its crested waves be frozen
By thy breath? Finality!
THE PARKS
The noble Parks of England,—
With all their clumps of green,
And dips of knee-deep grassy land
The graceful slopes between,
Their beeches—silver'd by the breeze—
So stately to be seen,
Their bird and squirrel palaces
Built high in oaken screen:
With all their clumps of green,
And dips of knee-deep grassy land
The graceful slopes between,
Their beeches—silver'd by the breeze—
So stately to be seen,
Their bird and squirrel palaces
Built high in oaken screen:
The grand old Parks of England,—
With their ancestral mien,
Their avenues—where Sydney plann'd
His pastoral serene,
And their pleasant leaf-strewn terraces
Whence the level sun is seen
Flinging over the miles of trees
Its glorious golden sheen:
With their ancestral mien,
Their avenues—where Sydney plann'd
His pastoral serene,
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Whence the level sun is seen
Flinging over the miles of trees
Its glorious golden sheen:
Those Parks, despite their beauty's worth,
And memories proudly worn,
We value less than common earth
That grows the peasant's corn;
We'd raze their bowers and plough them o'er,
Ay! confiscate the best,
Ere one of England's Martyr Poor
Should hunger unredress'd.
And memories proudly worn,
We value less than common earth
That grows the peasant's corn;
We'd raze their bowers and plough them o'er,
Ay! confiscate the best,
Ere one of England's Martyr Poor
Should hunger unredress'd.
It need not be: there's room for both,
The means for man to live
And all magnificence of growth
The Beautiful can give.
Our Parks we yet shall live to see
The Nation's own domain,
When Labour's daily path shall be
Across the sward again.
The means for man to live
And all magnificence of growth
The Beautiful can give.
Our Parks we yet shall live to see
The Nation's own domain,
When Labour's daily path shall be
Across the sward again.
GOD'S MARTYRS
The glorious roll of martyr names,
The Angels of our earth,—
Our hearts beat high when praise proclaims
That constellated Worth:
But in the shade of Time there lies
A tomb Love stoopeth o'er,
To read—“The Scorn'd of Histories.
“The nameless Martyr Poor.”
The Angels of our earth,—
Our hearts beat high when praise proclaims
That constellated Worth:
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A tomb Love stoopeth o'er,
To read—“The Scorn'd of Histories.
“The nameless Martyr Poor.”
The Poor, the unthank'd labour-worn,
Who all unnoticed died,—
The Toilers trampled down by Scorn
Upon the world's wayside!
Tell out the starry names that gem
God's heaven! The sanded shore
Is countless: who shall number them—
The silent-suffering Poor?
Who all unnoticed died,—
The Toilers trampled down by Scorn
Upon the world's wayside!
Tell out the starry names that gem
God's heaven! The sanded shore
Is countless: who shall number them—
The silent-suffering Poor?
The world shall never know their names,
Nor Fame recount their deeds;
They had no high heroic aims,
Nor strain'd at lofty meeds:
They were but men of common mould,
Yet royal crowns they wore:
What though their trials be untold?
Goa's Martyrs are the Poor.
Nor Fame recount their deeds;
They had no high heroic aims,
Nor strain'd at lofty meeds:
They were but men of common mould,
Yet royal crowns they wore:
What though their trials be untold?
Goa's Martyrs are the Poor.
They toil'd, they died,—Oblivion trod
Above the dust of Slaves:
Yet reach'd they hero-souls to God
From out the lowliest graves.
And yet a glorious shrine we'll raise
Their buried memories o'er,
Where reverent ages long shall praise
The scarce-remember'd Poor.
Above the dust of Slaves:
Yet reach'd they hero-souls to God
From out the lowliest graves.
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Their buried memories o'er,
Where reverent ages long shall praise
The scarce-remember'd Poor.
COURAGE
From the martyr-dust before thee,
From the pinnacles of Fame,
From the heavens bending o'er thee,
Aye the Voices are the same:
“Courage! we too have borne trial”
“Courage! if thou wouldst aspire”
“Courage! Fate hath no denial,—
“Through her ordeal of fire.”
From the pinnacles of Fame,
From the heavens bending o'er thee,
Aye the Voices are the same:
“Courage! we too have borne trial”
“Courage! if thou wouldst aspire”
“Courage! Fate hath no denial,—
“Through her ordeal of fire.”
Courage—Valour active-hearted:
Like a charmed sword, to be
Never from the hero parted
Even in last extremity.
Sword that well can shield its master,
Sword to lead the battle's front,—
Keen to rive the worst disaster,
Strong to ward despairing brunt.
Like a charmed sword, to be
Never from the hero parted
Even in last extremity.
Sword that well can shield its master,
Sword to lead the battle's front,—
Keen to rive the worst disaster,
Strong to ward despairing brunt.
Patience,—for the sick man's wearing
For the spirit-broken slave:
Knightly tool is noble daring,
Though his threshold be a grave.
Courage: neither fierce nor tardy,—
Lightning-swift if storm must be,
Bold indeed, but not fool-hardy,—
Feeling God's sure hand on thee.
For the spirit-broken slave:
Knightly tool is noble daring,
Though his threshold be a grave.
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Lightning-swift if storm must be,
Bold indeed, but not fool-hardy,—
Feeling God's sure hand on thee.
Voices from the Martyr Ages,
Voices from the Heights of Fame,
Heaven and Earth—God's open pages,
Ever speak to thee the same.
Lone and worn and disappointed,
Wounded, dying, night and day,
Art thou one of Faith's Anointed,
Thou shalt echo what they say.
Voices from the Heights of Fame,
Heaven and Earth—God's open pages,
Ever speak to thee the same.
Lone and worn and disappointed,
Wounded, dying, night and day,
Art thou one of Faith's Anointed,
Thou shalt echo what they say.
TRY AGAIN
The coldest hours are close upon the morn;
Night ever neareth day:
Up, man! and wrestle yet again with scorn;
Each footstep is a fall,—move on thy way!
Try again!
Night ever neareth day:
Up, man! and wrestle yet again with scorn;
Each footstep is a fall,—move on thy way!
Try again!
Is baffled beaten? Will the hero fail,
Flung down beneath a wall?
Another ladder! Let our comrades scale
The top, o'er us piled stair-like as we fall!
Try again!
Flung down beneath a wall?
Another ladder! Let our comrades scale
The top, o'er us piled stair-like as we fall!
Try again!
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O Hope forlornest, masked like Despair!
Truth must some day succeed.
Thy failure proves—What? Thy once failing there.
Fail yet again if there be martyr need!
Try again!
Truth must some day succeed.
Thy failure proves—What? Thy once failing there.
Fail yet again if there be martyr need!
Try again!
NEARING IT
Every minute in the night,
Be it dark and dread,
Is a step toward the light
On the mountain head:
Till our eyelids reach the dawn,
And the fearful night is gone,
As swift as startled fawn
From the hunter's tread.
Be it dark and dread,
Is a step toward the light
On the mountain head:
Till our eyelids reach the dawn,
And the fearful night is gone,
As swift as startled fawn
From the hunter's tread.
Every blow struck in the fight
On a foeman's shield
Is a promise for the Right,
That the Wrong shall yield:
And each determined word,
Like some ancient hero's sword,
Returneth to its lord
With his hest fulfill'd.
On a foeman's shield
Is a promise for the Right,
That the Wrong shall yield:
And each determined word,
Like some ancient hero's sword,
Returneth to its lord
With his hest fulfill'd.
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Every step into the light,
As the dawn-mists fly,
The hours increase in might,
Till the noon rides high:
And as night's black clouds disperse
At the sun-god's burning curse,
So drives Oppression's hearse
From our conquest-cry.
As the dawn-mists fly,
The hours increase in might,
Till the noon rides high:
And as night's black clouds disperse
At the sun-god's burning curse,
So drives Oppression's hearse
From our conquest-cry.
IRISH HARVEST SONG
This land is ours,—God gave it us;
We will maintain our own:
This land is ours,—we will not starve
Where corn is grown:
We will not starve in harvest time because some alienborn
Would speculate in corn.
We will maintain our own:
This land is ours,—we will not starve
Where corn is grown:
We will not starve in harvest time because some alienborn
Would speculate in corn.
Our arms are strong, our sickles keen,—
We will not idly stand
While others reap the golden grain
On our own land:
We will not starve in the midst of bread that some few “noble-born”
May steal the peasants' corn.
We will not idly stand
While others reap the golden grain
On our own land:
We will not starve in the midst of bread that some few “noble-born”
May steal the peasants' corn.
84
O, by the strength of our despair,
Our unrequited toil,
By God who gave us choice of death
On our own soil,—
Reap! though our reaping-hooks be swords, and let the robber-born
Glean plenteously our scorn!
Our unrequited toil,
By God who gave us choice of death
On our own soil,—
Reap! though our reaping-hooks be swords, and let the robber-born
Glean plenteously our scorn!
Our native land,—it shall be ours:
The land where we have sown
So many hopes—Fitzgerald's land—
We yet will own.
The spirit of Davis singeth clear over the ruddy corn,
Blessing our harvest morn.
The land where we have sown
So many hopes—Fitzgerald's land—
We yet will own.
The spirit of Davis singeth clear over the ruddy corn,
Blessing our harvest morn.
ENGLISH REAPERS
From the ruin where thou starvèst
Speed thee, Brother! to thy harvest:
Reap the grain of Hampden's sowing,
In the blood of Sydney growing!
Wake! arise!
Freedom cries
To her reapers. Warm winds blowing
Bow the golden-helmed corn—
To be sheaved this morn.
Arise!
Speed thee, Brother! to thy harvest:
Reap the grain of Hampden's sowing,
In the blood of Sydney growing!
Wake! arise!
Freedom cries
To her reapers. Warm winds blowing
Bow the golden-helmed corn—
To be sheaved this morn.
Arise!
85
From the loathly dens of Anguish,
Where your wives and children languish,
O ye million'd Toilers! hasten;
Reap your wages: we unfasten
Labour's chains.
Be your veins
Like theirs whom only high thoughts chasten!
So above the bending corn
Sing the Hours, in scorn
Of pains.
Where your wives and children languish,
O ye million'd Toilers! hasten;
Reap your wages: we unfasten
Labour's chains.
Be your veins
Like theirs whom only high thoughts chasten!
So above the bending corn
Sing the Hours, in scorn
Of pains.
England! in thy crowning splendour
Proud and reverent homage render
To that nobleness of spirit
Whose ripe hopes thou dost inherit.
Lift thine eyes!
All we prize
Grew from old heroic merit.
So shall many a golden morn
On thy brows be worn.
Arise!
Proud and reverent homage render
To that nobleness of spirit
Whose ripe hopes thou dost inherit.
Lift thine eyes!
All we prize
Grew from old heroic merit.
So shall many a golden morn
On thy brows be worn.
Arise!
HARVEST HOME
The autumn winds are flinging
The sunshine on the grain;
And the merry reapers, bringing
Load after load, are singing
Of Freedom's harvest gain.
Pile up the sheaves, boys! ho, boys!
The harvest is our own:
There's none fears now to sow, boys!
When each is free to grow, boys!
A harvest for his own.
Pile up the sheaves, boys! ho, boys!
A harvest for our own.
The sunshine on the grain;
And the merry reapers, bringing
Load after load, are singing
Of Freedom's harvest gain.
86
The harvest is our own:
There's none fears now to sow, boys!
When each is free to grow, boys!
A harvest for his own.
Pile up the sheaves, boys! ho, boys!
A harvest for our own.
The harvest winds are singing—
“The reapers' feast is come”
And merrier songs are ringing
From glorious voices, bringing
The last rich burthen home.
Toss up the last sheaf! ho, boys!
The harvest work is done.
We dared our hope to sow, boys!
Our toil hath help'd it grow, boys!
The harvest is our own.
And again the grain we'll grow, boys!
And future harvests own.
“The reapers' feast is come”
And merrier songs are ringing
From glorious voices, bringing
The last rich burthen home.
Toss up the last sheaf! ho, boys!
The harvest work is done.
We dared our hope to sow, boys!
Our toil hath help'd it grow, boys!
The harvest is our own.
And again the grain we'll grow, boys!
And future harvests own.
THE EXILES
Come to us, Exile! return to thy home again:
Come to the heart of thy Country, now free:
Martyr who hoped and who toil'd for us! come again,
Now we have made thy land worthy of thee.
Come to the heart of thy Country, now free:
Martyr who hoped and who toil'd for us! come again,
Now we have made thy land worthy of thee.
87
Many a hope hast thou sown for this garnering;
Many a tear for its growth didst thou rain,
Smiling thy sorrow through: shine on our gathering!
Come to our harvest-home! haste home again!
Many a tear for its growth didst thou rain,
Smiling thy sorrow through: shine on our gathering!
Come to our harvest-home! haste home again!
Martyrs whose blood was the track that we trusted to!
Exiles whose lives have been martyr'd no less!
Rise from the tombs where the Tyrants had thrusted you;
Come in your glory our triumph to bless.
Exiles whose lives have been martyr'd no less!
Rise from the tombs where the Tyrants had thrusted you;
Come in your glory our triumph to bless.
Thou who hast taught us the way to our victory!
Thou who wast first in the fight against odds!
Shall not our triumph recall what it owes to thee?
Scarcely our triumph: thine rather, and God's.
Thou who wast first in the fight against odds!
Shall not our triumph recall what it owes to thee?
Scarcely our triumph: thine rather, and God's.
Come to us, Exile! return to thy home again:
Come to the heart of thy Country, now free:
Martyr who suffer'd and hoped for us! come again
Now we have made thy land worthy of thee.
Come to the heart of thy Country, now free:
Martyr who suffer'd and hoped for us! come again
Now we have made thy land worthy of thee.
THE HAPPY LAND
The Happy Land!
Studded with cheerful homesteads, fair to see,
With garden grace and household symmetry:
How grand the wide-brow'd peasant's lordly mien,
The matron's smile serene!
O happy, happy Land!
Studded with cheerful homesteads, fair to see,
With garden grace and household symmetry:
How grand the wide-brow'd peasant's lordly mien,
The matron's smile serene!
O happy, happy Land!
88
The Happy Land!
Half-hid in the dewy grass the mower blithe
Sings to the day-star as he whets his scythe;
Or to his babes at eventide again
Carols as blithe a strain.
O happy, happy Land!
Half-hid in the dewy grass the mower blithe
Sings to the day-star as he whets his scythe;
Or to his babes at eventide again
Carols as blithe a strain.
O happy, happy Land!
The Happy Land!
Where in the golden sheen of autumn eves
The bright-hair'd children play among the sheaves;
Or gather ripest apples all the day,
As ruddy-cheek'd as they.
O happy, happy Land!
Where in the golden sheen of autumn eves
The bright-hair'd children play among the sheaves;
Or gather ripest apples all the day,
As ruddy-cheek'd as they.
O happy, happy Land!
The Happy Land!
The thin smoke curleth through the frosty air;
The light smiles from the windows: hearken there
To the white grandsire's tale of heroes old,
To flame-eyed listeners told!
O happy, happy Land!
The thin smoke curleth through the frosty air;
The light smiles from the windows: hearken there
To the white grandsire's tale of heroes old,
To flame-eyed listeners told!
O happy, happy Land!
O happy, happy Land!
The tender-foliaged alders scarcely shade
Yon loitering lover and glad blushing maid.
O happy Land! the spring that quickens thee
Is human liberty.
O happy, happy Land!
The tender-foliaged alders scarcely shade
Yon loitering lover and glad blushing maid.
O happy Land! the spring that quickens thee
Is human liberty.
O happy, happy Land!
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