'An tOcras Mór' The Great Hunger.

Take it from us, every grain,

We were made for you to drain;

Black starvation let us feel,

England must not want a meal!

When our rotting roots shall fail,

When the hunger pangs assail,

Ye'll have of Irish corn your fill --

We'll have grass and nettles still!

We are poor, and ye are rich;

Mind it not, were every ditch

Strewn in spring with famished corpses,

Take our oats to feed your horses!

Heaven, that tempers ill with good,

When it smote our wonted food,

Sent us bounteous growth of grain --

Sent to pauper slaves, in vain!

We but asked in deadly need:

'Ye that rule us! Let us feed

On the food that's ours' ~ behold!

Adder deaf and icy cold.

Were we Russians, thralls from birth,

In a time of winter dearth

Would a Russian despot see

From his land its produce flee?

Were we black Virginian slaves,

Bound and bruised with thongs and staves,

Avarice and selfish dread

Would not let us die unfed.

Were we, Saints of Heaven! were we

How we burn to think it -- FREE!

Not a grain should leave our shore,

Not for England's golden store.

They who hunger where it grew --

They whom Heaven had sent it to --

They who reared with sweat of brow --

They or none should have it now.

Lord that made us! What it is

To endure a lot like this!

Powerless in our worst distress,

Cramped by alien selfishness!

Not amongst our rulers all,

One true heart whereon to call;

Vainly still we turn to them

Who despoil us and contemn.

Forced to see them, day by day,

Snatch our sole resource away;

If returned a pittance be --

Alms, 'tis named, and beggars, we.

Lord! thy guiding wisdom grant,

Fearful counselor is WANT;

Burning thoughts will rise within,

Keep us pure from stain of sin!

But, at least, like trumpet blast,

Let it rouse us all at last;

Ye who cling to England's side!

Here and now, you see her tried.