Poems (Curwen)/The Distress in Ireland

by Annie Isabel Curwen

The Distress in Ireland.

AN APPEAL.

Christ fed the hungry multitude,
 He did not ask their race or creed,
 He only saw the people's need,
And bade His followers give them food.

A people in a sadder plight,
 In greater need, in more distress,
 Than those fed in the wilderness,
Appeal for sympathy to-night.

The starving poor on Erin's isle,
 Poor hapless souls! our pity claim:
 We ask you in Christ Jesu's name
To aid them for a little while.

"Feed my lambs," the Saviour said:
 His little lambs are faint and cold,
 Hungering, in their distant fold,
Crying piteously for bread.

"Feed my sheep," the voice Divine
 Echoes adown the ages still;
 Good Shepherd may we do Thy will,
For are not all men sheep of Thine!

But Charity begins at home,
 And we have our deserving poor,
 Pinched with want, close to our door;
Charity has no need to roam.

Yea, if she would do like her Lord,
 Irrespective of race, or creed,
 She must follow the Master's lead,
And faithfully obey His word.

O brethren! fathers of dear sons,
 And mothers of sweet daughters fair,
 Surely a trifle you may spare
To aid the famine-stricken ones.

Fear not to cast your bread upon
 The waters, 'twill return again;
 And ye shall count your loss as gain,
When the dear Lord doth say "Well done."