The Potato Digger's Song (1912)
By Thomas C. Irwin
(The author of the following was Thos. C. Irwin. He was born at Warrenpoint, County Down, on the 24th day of May, 1824.Favoured by a good education he early entered upon a literary career. Under the patronage of Charles Gavan Duffy, the
then editor of the old Dublin "Nation," he contributed regularly. He also contributed to many other magazines and periodicals.
The following are his published works: "Versailles" (1856), "Poems" (1866), "Irish Historical and Legendary Poems" (1868),
"Songs and Romance" (1878). He has been a prolific writer, more than 200 pieces having come from his ready pen.) Come, Conal, aeushla ! turn the clay,
And blow the lumpers the light, gossoon !
For we must toil this autumn day,
With Heaven's help, till rise of the moon.
Thank God, and nothing, my boy, remains,
But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure,
Before the coining November rains.
The peasant's mine is his harvest still ;
So, now, my lads, lot's work with a will :-
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand,
Through the crumbly mould;
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold of Ireland ! Och ! I wish that Maurice and Mary dear,
Were singing beside us this soft day !
Of course, they're far better off than here ;
But whether they're happier, who can say ?
I've heard when it's morn' with us, 'tis night
With them on the far Australian shore ;
Well, Heaven be about them with visions bright,
And send them childer, and money galore.
With us there's many a month to fill,
And, so, my boys, let's work with a will
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
Through the brown dry mould.
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold of Ireland ! Ah, then, Paddy O'Reardon, you thundering Turk,
Is it courting you are in the blessed noon ?
Come over here, Katty, and mind your work,
Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune;
Well, youth will be youth, as you know, Mike,
Sixteen and twenty for each other were meant ;
But Pat, in the name of the fairies, avic,
Defer your proposals till after Lent ;
And as love in this country lives mostly still
On potatoes, dig, boy, dig, with a will ;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
Through the harvest mould,
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold of Ireland ! Down the bridle road the neighbours ride,
Through the light ash shade, by the wheaten sheaves,
And the children sing on the mountain-side,
In the sweet blue smoke of the autumn leaves ;
Ah the great sun sits in glory furled,
Faith, It's grand to think as I watch his face,
If he never sets on the English world,
He never, lad, sets on the Irlsh race,
In the West, in the South, now lreland's still
Grow up In his light-come, work with a will ;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand
Work spade and hand
Through the native mould,
The blessed fruit,
That grows at the root
Is the real gold of Ireland. But, look-the round moon, yellow as corn,
Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm ;
It scarcely seems a day since morn ;
Well, the heel of the evening to you, ma'am.
God bless the moon, for many a night,
As I restless lay on a troubled bed,
When rent was due, her quieting light
Has flattered with dreams my poor old head,
But see-the basket remains to fill,
Come, girls, be alive-boys dig with a will :—
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand,
Through the moonlit mould,
That grows at the root ;
Is the real gold of Ireland ! Notes From the NSW Newspaper The Catholic Press 1 Feb 1912 p. 41.