The Queen has lands and gold, mother,
The Queen has lands and gold, While you are forced to your empty breast
A skeleton babe to hold,— A babe that is dying of want, mother,
As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
And famine upon its brow.
What has poor Ireland done, mother,—
What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve,
Perishing one by one? Do the men of England care not, mother,—
The great men and the high,— For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,
Whether they live or die?
There is many a brave heart here, mother,
Dying of want and cold, While only across the Channel, mother,
Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, mother,
With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night
Would give life to me and you.
Come nearer to my side, mother.
Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held
My father when he died; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother,
My breath is almost gone; Mother! dear mother! ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn.
AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS.
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"
"Work! work! work
While the cock is crowing aloof! And work—work—work
Till the stars shine through the roof! It's, O, to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!