Poem by John Banim

The Irish Peasant to His Child

[Note: Air--``Laugh sheeling,'' Or, 
``Come rest in this bosom.'']

And where are you going, ma bouchelleen--bawn,
From father and mother so early at dawn?
Och! rather run idle from evening till dawn,
Than darken their threshold, ma bouchelleen--bawn!

For there they would tell you, ma bouchelleen--bawn,
That the mother whose milk to your heart you have drawn,
And the father who prays for you, evening and dawn,
Can never be heard for you, bouchelleen--bawn!

That the faith we have bled for, from father to son,
Since first by a lie our fair valleys were won,
And which oft in the desart, our knees to the sod,
We kept from them all, for our sons and our God--

That this was idolatry, heartless and cold,
And now grown more heartless because it is old;
And for something that's newer they'd ask you to pawn
The creed of your fathers, ma bouchelleen--bawn!

And now will you go to them, bouchelleen--bawn,
From father and mother, so early at dawn?
Och! the cloud from your mind let it never be drawn,
But cross not their threshold, ma bouchelleen--bawn!

1. Soggarth Aroon
2. The Irish Mother in the Penal Days
3. More Blood! Cry the Vultures - More Blood!
4. The Clare Election
5. Here We Are, Mr. Bull, Your Orange and Green

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