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And instead of paying their rents quietly, when the half-year
day 's come round, Enroll themselves in Ribbon-clubs and hold possession of the
ground: And if any one the courage has to ask for what 's his own, Pop! through his back a bullet goes, or at his head a stone; Or it 's maybe when the family 's just sitting down to tea,
slugs patter In through the parlour window-sash, and cups and saucers
We were hard put to it, I freely own, both myself and the
Archbishop, But the true cause of all this trouble in the long run we did
THE TENANTS SHOOT THEIR LANDLORDS, AND REFUSE TO PAY THEIR RENT, JUST BECAUSE THEY HAVE NO WORKHOUSES TO GO INTO WHEN ALL THEIR
MONEY 'S SPENT.
Now if by chance there is any one so dull as not to understand That this, and this alone, 's the true cause of all the troubles
of the land, Let him only read the Answer your Excellencies lately wrote To the magistrates of the county where Lord Norbury was shot, And Mr. Biddulph wounded, in the broad, high noon of day, Men, women, and children looking on, just as if it were a play.
But though your Answer, my Lords Justices, makes it seem
to me as clear As moonshine, the moonshiniest night in Ireland round the year, That want of workhouses is the cause of all the sad ills we
endure, And the building of workhouses the only sure and certain cure, Yet I'm bold to tell your Lordships in as plain words as I can, When our workhouses are finished, we'll be just where we
It isn't that the landlords won't have to pay the rates, Which will swallow up the quarter or the half of their estates, - On the average, I mean, for, when the Union 's poor, The Guardians must the whole take, and the Act allows them,
to be sure But then the tenant to pay his rent won't have one penny more, And tenant-ejecting and landlord-shooting will go on just as
heretofore, And one of your Excellencies may the first be, to be shot, Which, as a friend and fellow land-holder, I pray God he
But God is good, I need not tell you, my most excellent Lords
Justices, And if you but make haste enough with the building of the
workhouses, And to put the Act in force, which to the Guardians of the poor Assigns over our estates, you will at once secure Not our precious lives alone, but whatever residue of our estates May be remaining over for us landlords, after payment of
the rates; And in cases where there 's nothing left, there will still be
refuge sure For the landlords, in the work houses, as for any other poor. And now until the next time, my Lords Justices, adieu! Your most obedient servant, JAMES LENNOX WILLIAM NAPER
(FITZWILLIAM-SQUARE, DUBLIN, Nov. 1840.]
TO THE RIVER GRIESE.
SWEETLY unconscious flows thy gentle stream,
Nor know'st thou aught of joy or misery;
Must taste of joy and woe each strange extremity.
How dear to me those banks in silence clipt
And gently pressed by thy unheeding tide!
Bending in fondness from thy parent side!
But thou, no lover's rapture speeds thy pace,
This sacred spot approaching from afar;
The last faint lines, ere fate's eternal bar
I must go,
For ever close upon thee
But not, like thee, indifferent. Turn, my feet;
Farewell, ye hallowed haunts, Elizabeth's* retreat. (Written in BALLITORE (Co. KILDARE), June 1818, in Mary Leadbeater's
garden on the Griese, being the author's first rencontre with one of the Nine. See page 181.)
* Formerly the residence of Miss Elizabeth Smith, and still known by the name of The Retreat. See Fragments of the late Elizabeth Smith.
(Titles are printed in capital letters, first lines in ordinary type.)
I walked, in the sun, by the side of a wood .
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