THE FAMINE YEAR

Weary men, what reap ye? "Golden corn for the Stranger."
What sow ye? "Human corpses that await for the Avenger."
Fainting forms, all hunger-stricken, what see you in the offing?
"Stately ships to bear our food away amid the stranger's scoffing."
There's a proud array of soldiers what do they round your door?
"They guard our masters' granaries from the thin hands of the poor."
Pale mothers, wherefore weeping? "Would to God that we were dead"
Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread!"

"We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools to build your pride,
But God will yet take vengeance for the souls for whom Christ died.
Now is your hour of pleasure, bask ye in the world's caress;
But our whitening bones against ye will arise as witnesses,
From the cabins and the ditches, in their charred, uncoffined masses,
For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes.
A ghastly, spectral army before God we'll stand
And arraign ye as our murderers, O spoilers of our land!"

by Jane Wilde (Wexford born mother of Oscar Wilde)