ere with odds to aid--say twenty men to one--
It stirs my heart to think upon the deeds I might have done!
I wouldn't then be telling you the melancholy tale
How Ireland's pride imprisoned lies in dark Kilmainham gaol.

Yet weep not, Erin, for thy son! 'tis he that's doing well,
For Ireland's thousands feed him there within his dungeon cell,--
And if by chance he eats too much and his health begins to fail,
The Government then will let him out from black Kilmainham gaol!

"THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN"

(1890)

Oh, wanst I was a tinant, an' I wisht I was one stilt,
With my cow an' pig an' praties, an' my cabin on the hill!
'Twas plinty then I had to drink an' plinty too to ate,
And the childer had employment on the Ponsonby estate.

It was in Tipperary town, as down the street I went,
I met with Mr Blarnigan, that sits in Parliament:
'Tis he that has the eloquence! An' "Pay no rint," says he,
"For that's the way you'll get your land, an' set the country free."

I'd paid my rint--sure, 'twas rejuiced--before the rows began,
An' the agent that was in it was a dacent kind of man;
But parties kem by moonlight now, and tould me I must not,
And if I paid it any more they'd surely have me shot.

The agent said he'd take the half of all the rint I owed,
Because he'd be unwilling for to put me on the road:
I said, "I thank your honour, and in glory may you be!
But that is not the way," says I, "to set ould Ireland free."

They kem an' put me out of that, and left me there forlorn,
Beside the empty ruins of the house where I was born:
I'm indepindent now myself, and have no work to do,
Until the day when Ireland is indepindent too.

"A day will come," says Blarnigan, "when tyranny's o'erthrown--
Just hould the rint a year or so, and all the land's your own!"
Well, 'tis not for the likes of me to question what they say,
But it's starved we'll be before we see that great and glorious day!

This fighting against tyranny's a splendid kind of thrade,
For thim that goes to London for't, and gets their tickets paid!
I'm loafing on the road myself, an' sorra know I know
What way I'll live the winter through, an' where on earth I'll go.

Oh, wanst I was a tinant, an' I wisht I was one still,
With my cow an' pig an' praties, an' my cabin on the hill!
Now it's to New York City that I'll have to cross the sea,
And all because I held my rint to set