"'What has poor Ireland done, mother,
What has poor Ireland done,
That the world looks on and sees us die,
Perishing one by one?
Do the men of England care not, mother,
The great men and the high,
For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,—
Whether they live or die?
What has poor Ireland done,
That the world looks on and sees us die,
Perishing one by one?
Do the men of England care not, mother,
The great men and the high,
For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,—
Whether they live or die?
"'There's many a brave heart here, mother,
Dying of want and cold,
While only across the channel, mother,
Are many that roll in gold.
There are great and proud men there, mother,
With wondrous wealth to view,
And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night
Would bring life to me and you.
Dying of want and cold,
While only across the channel, mother,
Are many that roll in gold.
There are great and proud men there, mother,
With wondrous wealth to view,
And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night
Would bring life to me and you.
"'Come nearer to my side, mother,
Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly, as you held
My father when he died.
Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly, as you held
My father when he died.
