THE STARVING POOR OF IRELAND.
BY REV. J.G. ADAMS.
A wail comes o'er the ocean,
Though faint, yet deep with woe!
A nation's poor are falling
Before the direst foe!
Grim Famine there hath seized them,
And over Erin's land
The multitudes are perishing
Beneath his blasting hand!
The father gives his morsel
To his imploring child,
Himself imploring mercy, too,
With voice and visage wild.
The ever-faithful mother
Her portion, too, will share
With those who lean upon her,
And plead her dying care.
Then father, mother, children,
Must listen, one and all,
To Famine's surer, sterner voice—
To Death's relentless call.
For means are all exhausted;
Bread! bread! There is no more!
And in that once glad cabin
The conflict now is o'er.
Fond, faithful hearts there perished;
Affections deep and true
As other homes and loved ones
Now know, or ever knew.
And why this visitation
So sweeping and so sore?
Why? why? Repeat the question
The wide world o'er and o'er!
In that same land is plenty,
Profusion, wealth, and power,
Enough to stay the famine-plague
This very day and hour.
Yes, while the poor are starving
By scores and hundreds even,
Riches and luxury send up
Their impious laugh to heaven!
Wrong! wrong! this destitution,
While there are means to save
A nation of strong-hearted men
From famine and the grave.
Thanks, thanks for riches! but a woe
To this our earth they bring,
So long as they shall fail to save
God's poor from suffering!