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!