Songs of the Army of the Night - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Will you not buy? She asks you, my lord, you Who know the points desirable in such.
She does not say that she is perfect. True, She's not too pleasant to the sight or touch.
But then-neither are you!
Her cheeks are rather fallen in; a mist Glazes her eyes, for all their hungry glare.
Her lips do not breathe balmy when they're kissed.
And yet she's not more loathsome than, I swear, Your grandmother at whist.
My lord, she will admit, and need not frame Excuses for herself, that she's not chaste.
First a young lover had her; then she came From one man's to another's arms, with haste.
Your mother did the same.
Moreover, since she's married, once or twice She's sold herself for certain things at night, To sell one's body for the highest price Of social ease and power, all girls think right.
Your sister did it thrice.
What, you'll not buy? You'll curse at her instead?- Her children are alone, at home, quite near.
These winter streets, so gay at nights, 'tis said, Have 'ticed the wanton out. _She could not hear_ _Her children cry for bread_!
TO THE GIRLS OF THE UNIONS.
Girls, we love you, and love Asks you to give again That which draws it above, Beautiful, without stain.
Give us weariless faith In our Cause pure, pa.s.sionate, Dearer than life and death, Dear as the love that's it!
Give to the man who turns Traitrous hands or forlorn Back from the plough that burns, Give him pitiless scorn!
Let him know that no wife Would bear him a fearless child To hate and loathe the life Of a leprous father defiled.
_Girls_, _we love you_, _and love_ _Asks you to give again_ _That which draws it above_, _Beautiful_, _without stain_!
HAGAR.
She went along the road, Her baby in her arms.
The night and its alarms Made deadlier her load.
Her shrunken b.r.e.a.s.t.s were dry; She felt the hunger bite.
She lay down in the night, She and the child, to die.
But it would wail, and wail, And wail. She crept away.
She had no word to say, Yet still she heard the wail.
She took a jagged stone; She wished it to be dead.
She beat it on the head; It only gave one moan.
She has no word to say; She sits there in the night.
The east sky glints with light, And it is Christmas Day!
"WHY!"
"_Why is it we toil so_?
_Where go all the gains_?
_What do we produce for it_, _All our pangs and pains_?"
Why it is we toil so, Is it because, like sheep, Since our fathers sought the shears, We the same course keep.
Where go all the gains? Well, It must be confessed, First the landlords take the rent, And the masters take the rest.
What do we produce for it?
Gentlemen!-and then Imitation sn.o.bs who'd be Like the gentlemen!
"_What_, _is it for such as these_ _That we suffer thus_?
_Fuddle-brained and vicious fools_, _Vermin venomous_?
"_What_, _is that why on the top_ _Creeps that Royal Louse_, _The prince of pheasants and cigars_, _Of ballet-girls and grouse_?"
Yes, that's why, my Christian friends, They slave and slaughter us.
England is made a dunghill that Some bugs may breed and buzz.
A VISITOR IN THE CAMP.
To MARY ROBINSON. {27}
"_What_, _are you lost_, _my pretty little lady_?
_This is no place for such sweet things as you_.
_Our bodies_, _rank with sweat_, _will make you sicken_, _And_, _you'll observe_, _our lives are rank lives too_."
"Oh no, I am not lost! Oh no, I've come here (And I have brought my lute, see, in my hand), To see you, and to sing of all you suffer To the great world, and make it understand!"
"_Well_, _say_! _If one of those who'd robbed you thousands_, _Dropped you a sixpence in the gutter where_ _You lay and rotted_, _would you call her angel_, _For all her charming smile and dainty air_?"
"Oh no, I come not thus! Oh no, I've come here With heart indignant, pity like a flame, To try and help you!"-"_Pretty little lady_, _It will be best you go back whence you came_."
"'_Enthusiasms_' _we have such little time for_!
_In our rude camp we drill the whole day long_.
_When we return from out the serried battle_, _Come_, _and we'll listen to your pretty song_!"
"LORD LEITRIM."
