Poem by John Banim

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``More blood!'' cry the vultures--``more blood!''--
The old carrion--crows of our land--
The men by her children who stood
With halter and scourge in their hand!
``Blood! blood, ankle deep!'' is the shout,
While they gloat o'er their Circean cup,
And grin--the base, ravening rout--
As though it were blood they suck'd up!

But from them every drop we shall save
Which through her dear arteries floats,
Till at last in despair they do crave
From the devil and us their own throats!
Every drop! though like Dives they pray
From the hell in their own bosoms nursed,
Crying out but for one to allay
The pangs of that horrible thirst!

1. Soggarth Aroon
2. Demand and Supply
3. The New Reformation
4. The Celt’s Paradise. Second Duan
5. The Irish Mother in the Penal Days

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