We’re robbers to snatch back our own from their hand,
We’re traitors because we are true to our land,
And cut-throats, ha! ha! so the cowards can feel
That we, like themselves, carry points to our steel!
They have hunted us down now for many a day;
To-night they shall find us the hunters, not they;
For we’ll bend to their foul yoke no longer, we’ll swear,
Whilst we’ve arms that can strike, boys, or hearts that can dare.
TO THE LANDLORDS OF IRELAND.
YOU tendered us when famine came
The pity of a thought,
Bestowed to slaves whose sense of shame
And hearts and souls you’d bought.
Time’s wheel turns round—you’ve lost your place,
And right into your tyrant face,
Your jibes and sneers
Of many years
At victims’ tears
Are thrown,
And in God’s name,
Our hearts aflame,
To-day we claim
Our own!
Once for ye, skulking, lazy elves,
Muscle and brain we wrought.
Toiled, starved, and died—scarce for ourselves
The crumbs of Lazarus sought;
And when ye flung us out a crust,
Our faces grovelling in the dust,
We gave ye thanks—
No prize, all blanks
In our poor ranks
Was known;
But now, thank God,
We’ve spurned your rod,
And claim this sod
Our own!
We lift our faces to the sky
Where once our heads were bowed,
We breathe no more a timid sigh,
But speak our thoughts aloud.
From dizzy hill and peaceful plain
Our voices join in this refrain:
The seeds we sow,
The crops we grow,
The fields we mow,
Alone,
Without your aid
In cash or spade
At last are made
Our own!
BALFOUR REJOICES.
SO the toil of the session is over,
My woes for a period cease,
And hey for a journey by Dover
To latitudes promising peace;
Away to recuperate vigor—
Away from obstruction’s mad spell—
Away from the questions of Biggar—
Away from the taunts of Parnell.
No more my poor head shall be aching
With night after night of debate—
No more shall my soul feel a quaking
At bald, irrepressible prate.
And, though ocean attack me with rigor,
While sea-sick, with joy I will dwell
On the fact that I’m leaving Joe Biggar,
And getting away from Parnell.
No more to be quizzed on each capture
Of priest or of peasant by night—
I could dance the can-can in my rapture,
Or stand on my head with delight.
Play the banjo and sing like a nigger,
Or like a wild Irishman yell
Hurroo! I am free from Joe Biggar,
And don’t give—ahem—for Parnell!
Yet I feel an occasional spasm
At thoughts of returning at all,
’Twere better to leap down a chasm
Or under an avalanche fall;
Or, fingers embracing the trigger,
Let the pistol’s report loudly tell
How I hated the queries of Biggar
And the dolorous talk of Parnell.