(A Song of the Irish Sod.)
Oh, the land for the men who till it !
Not a rod for the absentee,
With his rack-rent and tax to kill it,
While he revels in luxury.
All too long has the Irish peasant
Sweat his brow for the stranger's gain,
Looking broad, while the trout and pheasant
For the sport of the lord are slain !
All too long have the high been humbled,
And the chieftain enroll'd as serf !
Be the throne of the English crumbled
Unto dust for the Irish turf !
It's the land for the men who till it,
Of the Green Isle untill'd shall be,
Till the conquering footsteps thrill it
Of the Celt from the Briton free !
To the front men of Dublin, Galway,
From the East and the West troop forth
From the South into line, as alway,
Into line from the virile North !
Swell the force of the Irish pagent,
Till the Bill of the League be vouch'd,
And the landlord and English agent
Slink to the Lion behind them crouch'd.
For the day of Misrule is over,
And the era of Justice come
That shall bring back the Irish rover,
And employ Irish youth at home.
When "The Land for the Men Who Till It"
Is the song of the Isle once more,
Then the Green-and-the-Gold shall fill it
With the glory of days of yore !
Drive the herds from the Irish grazing,
Reap the crops for the Irish keep !
Not a sheaf for the bailiff's razing
Leave unglean'd on declines or steep !.
Light the peat, where the hearths grow chilly,
Force the looks of the bolted door ;
Build anew where the law did illy,
Burning roofs of the Irish poor !
Native talents, by envy fetter'd,
Crave the culture that marks the age ;
Irish schools for the young unletter'd,
Arts and industries for the sage !
Erin's fate, if her sons fulfil it,
Is to leap to immortal fame,
Then the land for the men who till it,
Ere its genius sign Ireland's name !
Haste, oh day, when both hall and cottage
Shall nurture native age and youth !
Tho' the feast be but milk and pottage,
Irish homes are 'Sweet Homes' in truth,
With no lion on the roof-tree's glory,
Pride is thron'd on the humbled hearth.
And traditions of song and story
Open Heaven to human earth.
Oh, the children are light and laughter
Round the simple ancestral board ;
And the sob that perchance comes after
Is but love's more impassion'd chord !
Then the land for the men who till it,
And their scions, while Time shall be ;
And the National soul shall thrill it
With the Gaol's immortality.
God of Erin, whose Faith's survival
Is the plea as Thy trusted child,
Speed her glory of race-revival,
In its source pure and undefil'd !
She has trodden the press of anguish,
She has drain'd Wrong's cup to the lees,
Yet Thy Hand hath not let her languish,
And her foes drink the dregs of these.
Then, tho' years be as days to Heaven,
Oh, delay not Thy Erin's cause,
Be her tyrants from Thine Isle driven,
Grant the Irish both land and laws !
It's the land for the men who till it,
In the Erin from landlords free,
And no power on earth shall will it
The domain of the absentee !
Mary Sarsfield Gilmore
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Catholic Press 2 Jun 1904 p. 31.
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