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.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

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!

“Work—­work—­work
  Till the brain begins to swim! 
Work—­work—­work
  Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 
Seam, and gusset, and band,
  Band, and gusset, and seam,—­
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
  And sew them on in a dream!

“O men with sisters dear! 
  O men with mothers and wives! 
It is no linen you’re wearing out,
  But human creatures’ lives! 
    Stitch! stitch! stitch,
  In poverty, hunger, and dirt,—­
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
  A shroud as well as a shirt!

“But why do I talk of death,—­
  That phantom of grisly bone? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
  It seems so like my own,—­
It seems so like my own
  Because of the fasts I keep;
O God! that bread should be so dear,
  And flesh and blood so cheap!

“Work—­work—­work
  My labor never flags;
And what are its wages?  A bed of straw,
  A crust of bread—­and rags,
That shattered roof—­and this naked floor—­
  A table—­a broken chair—­
And a wall so blank my shadow I thank
  For sometimes falling there!