_Fam._ Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled, Their wives and their children faint for bread. I stood in a swampy field of battle; With bones and skulls I made a rattle, To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow And the homeless dog--but they would not go. So off I flew: for how could I bear To see them gorge their dainty fare? I heard a groan and a peevish squall, And through the chink of a cottage-wall-- Can you guess what I saw there? _Both_. Whisper it, sister! in our ear. _Fam_. A baby beat its dying mother: I had starved the one and was starving the other! _Both_. Who bade you do't? _Fam_. The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. He let me loose, and cried Halloo! To him alone the praise is due. _Fire_. Sisters! I from Ireland came! Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, I triumph'd o'er the setting sun! And all the while the work was done, On as I strode with my huge strides, I flung back my head and I held my sides, It was so rare a piece of fun To see the sweltered cattle run With uncouth gallop through the night, Scared by the red and noisy light! By the light of his own blazing cot Was many a naked Rebel shot: The house-stream met the flame and hissed, While crash! fell in the roof, I wist, On some of those old bed-rid nurses, That deal in discontent and curses. _Both._ Who bade you do't? _Fire._ The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. He let me loose, and cried Halloo! To him alone the praise is due. _All._ He let us loose, and cried Halloo! How shall we yield him honour due? _Fam._ Wisdom comes with lack of food. I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude, Till the cup of rage o'erbrim: They shall seize him and his brood-- _Slau._ They shall tear him limb from limb! _Fire._ O thankless beldames and untrue! And is this all that you can do For him, who did so much for you? Ninety months he, by my troth! Hath richly catered for you both; And in an hour would you repay An eight years' work?--Away! away! I alone am faithful! I Cling to him everlastingly. 1797. THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE TOMBSTONE The Devil believes that the Lord will come, Stealing a march without beat of drum, About the same time that he came last On an old Christmas-day in a snowy blast: Till he bids the trump sound neither body nor soul stirs For the dead men's heads have slipt under their bolsters. Ho! ho! brother Bard, in our churchyard Both beds and bolsters are soft and green; Save one alone, and that's of stone, And under it lies a Counsellor keen. This tomb would be square, if it were not too long; And 'tis rail'd round with iron, tall, spear-like, and strong.