THE LAND OF SLAVES.
"Le printemps—le printemps!"—Berenger.
'Twas a sunny holiday,
Scene, Killarney—time, last May;
In the fields the rustic throng,
Every linnet in full song,
Not a cloud to threaten rain,
As I walk'd with lovely Jane.
While we wander'd round the bay,
Came the gayest of the gay,
Pouring from a painted barge,
Anchor'd by the flowery marge;
Sporting round its cliffs and caves:—
Ireland is the land of slaves!
Next we met an infant group,
Never was a happier troop;
Dancing o'er the primrose plain.
"Joyous infancy!" said Jane;
"Free from care as winds and waves."
—"No, my darling, these are slaves!"
On we walk'd—a garden shade
Show'd us matron, man, and maid,
Laughing, talking, all coquetting,
"Here," said Jane, "I see no fretting:
Mammon makes but fools or knaves."
—"No, my darling, these are slaves!"
On we walk'd—we saw a dome,
Fill'd with furious dupes of Rome,
Ranting of the sword and chain.
"Let us run away," said Jane:
"How that horrid rebel raves!"
—"No, my darling, these are slaves!"
As we ran, a monster-crowd
Stopp'd us, uttering vengeance loud;
Giving nobles to the halter,
Cursing England's throne and altar,
Brandishing their pikes and staves.
"Love," said Jane, "are all these slaves?"
[Greek: Aion]