'My back is to the wall; Lo! here I stand.

O Lord, whate'er befall, I love this land!

'This land that I have tilled, This land is mine; Would, Lord, that Thou hadst willed, This heart were Thine!

'This land to us Thou gave In days of old; They seek to make a grave Or field of gold!

'To us, O Lord, Thy hand, Put forth to save!

Give us, O Lord, this land Or give a grave!'

'A New Song for the Boers' says:--

'Hark! to the curses ringing From all smitten lands; In sob and wail, they tell the tale Of England's blood-red hands.

'And wheresoe'er her standard flings Forth its folds of shame, A people's cries to heaven arise For vengeance on her name!'

But for pa.s.sionate expression, one cannot, as I have already said, look to the comparatively new and artificial English ballad form; one must go to the Irish, with its long tradition. Here is a poem, 'The Curse of the Boers on England,' which I have translated literally from the Irish:--

'O G.o.d, we call to Thee, This hour and this day, Look down on this England That has come down in our midst.

'O G.o.d, we call to Thee, This day and this hour, Look down on England, And her cold, cold heart.

'It is she was a Queen, A Queen without sorrow; But we will take from her, Quietly, her Crown.

'That Queen that was beautiful Will be tormented and darkened, For she will get her reward In that day, and her wage.

'Her wage for the blood She poured out on the streams; Blood of the white man, Blood of the black man.

'Her wage for those hearts That she broke in the end; Hearts of the white man, Hearts of the black man.

'Her wage for the bones That are whitening to-day; Bones of the white man, Bones of the black man.

'Her wage for the hunger That she put on foot; Her wage for the fever, That is an old tale with her.

'Her wage for the white villages She has left without men; Her wage for the brave men She has put to the sword.

'Her wage for the orphans She has left under pain; Her wage for the exiles She has spent with wandering.

'For the people of India (Pitiful is their case); For the people of Africa She has put to death.

'For the people of Ireland, Nailed to the cross; Wage for each people Her hand has destroyed.

'Her wage for the thousands She deceived and she broke; Her wage for the thousands Finding death at this hour.

'O Lord, let there fall Straight down on her head The curse of the peoples That have fallen with us.

'The curse of the mean, And the curse of the small, The curse of the weak, And the curse of the low.

'The Lord does not listen To the curse of the strong, But He will listen To sighs and to tears.

'He will always listen To the crying of the poor, And the crying of thousands Is abroad to-night.

'That crying will rise up To G.o.d that is above; It is not long till every curse Comes to His ears.

'The crying will be put away; Tears will be put away, When they come to G.o.d, These prayers to His kingdom.

'He will make for England Strong chains, very heavy; He will pay her wages With strong, heavy chains.

1901.

A SORROWFUL LAMENT FOR IRELAND

The Irish poem I give this translation of was printed in the _Revue Celtique_ some years ago, and lately in _An Fior Clairseach na h-Eireann_, where a note tells us it was taken from a ma.n.u.script in the Gottingen Library, and was written by an Irish priest, Shemus Cartan, who had taken orders in France; but its date is not given. I like it for its own beauty, and because its writer does not, as so many Irish writers have done, attribute the many griefs of Ireland only to 'the hors.e.m.e.n of the Gall,' but also to the faults and shortcomings to which the people of a country broken up by conquest are perhaps more liable than the people of a country that has kept its own settled rule.

A SORROWFUL LAMENT FOR IRELAND.

My thoughts, alas! are without strength; My spirit is journeying towards death; My eyes are as a frozen sea; My tears my daily food; There is nothing in my life but only misery; My poor heart is torn, And my thoughts are sharp wounds within me, Mourning the miserable state of Ireland, Without ease, without mirth for any person That is born on the plains of Emer.

And here I give you the heavy story, And the tale of all the remnant of her deeds.

She lost her pomp and her strength together When her strong men were banished across the sea; Her churches are as holds of pain, Without altars, without Ma.s.s, without bowing of knees; Stables for horses--this story is pitiful-- Or without a stone of their stones together.

Since the children of Israel were in Egypt Under bondage, and scarcity along with that, There was never written in a book or never seen Hardship like the hardships in Ireland.

They parted from us the shepherds of the flock That is the flock that is astray and is wounded, Left to be torn by wild dogs, And no healing for it from the hand of anyone.

Unless G.o.d will look down on our distress Ireland will indeed be lost for ever!

Every old man, every strong man, every child, Our young men and our well-dressed women, Keening, complaining, and reproaching; Going under the power of the Gall or going across the sea.

Our dear country without any ears of corn, Without store, without cattle, but only the green gra.s.s; Our fatherless children are wasted and weak, Famine and sickness travelling over Ireland, And every other scourge that was ever known, And the rest of her pain has not yet been told.

Nevertheless, my sharp woe! I see with my eyes That the High King has a bow ready in His hand, And His quiver is full of arrows with sharp points, And every arrow of them for our sore wounding, From the sole of our feet to the top of our head, To bruise our hearts and to tear our sinews; There is no spot of our limbs but is scarred; Misfortune has come upon us all together-- The poor and the rich, the weak and the strong; The great lord by whom hundreds were maintained; The powerful strong man, and the man that holds the plough; And the cross laid on the bare shoulder of every man.

I do not know of anything under the sky That is friendly or favourable to the Gael, But only the sea that our need brings us to, Or the wind that blows to the harbour The ship that is bearing us away from Ireland; And there is reason that these are reconciled with us, For we increase the sea with our tears, And the wandering wind with our sighs.

We do not see heaven look kindly upon us; We do not see our complaint being listened to; Even the earth refuses us shelter And the wood that gives protection to the birds; Every cliff, every cave, every mountain-top, Every hill, every lough, and every meadow.

Our feasts are without any voice of priests, And none at them but women lamenting, Tearing their hair, with troubled minds, Keening pitifully after the Fenians.

The pipes of our organs are broken; Our harps have lost their strings that were tuned That might have made the great lamentations of Ireland; Until the strong men come back across the sea, There is no help for us but bitter crying, Screams, and beating of hands, and calling out.

It is not strength of hosts, not loss of food, Not the hors.e.m.e.n of the Gall coming from Britain, Nor want of power, nor want of calling to war, That has put defeat upon the armies of Ireland, And has filled the cities with a sad mult.i.tude, Alas! alas! but the greatness of our sins.

See, we are now put in the crucible In which every worthless metal is tried, In which gold is cleansed from every tarnish; The Scripture is true in everything it says; It says we must suffer before we can be cured; It is through repentance we shall find forgiveness, And the restoring of all that we have lost.

Let us put down the sum of our sins; Oppression of the poor, thieving, robbery, Great vows held in light esteem; Giving our soul to the man that is the worst; The strength of our pride was greater than our life, The strength of our debts was more than we could pay.

It was with treachery Ireland was lost, And the ill-will of men one to another.

There was no judge that would give a hearing To the oppressed people whose life was under hardship.