What has poor Ireland done, mother, What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve, Perishing, one by one? Do the men of England care not, mother, The great men and the high, For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, Whether they live or die? There is many a brave heart here, mother, Dying of want and cold, While only across the channel, mother, Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, mother, With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night, Would give life to me and you. Come nearer to my side, mother, Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held My father when he died; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother; My breath is almost gone; Mother! dear mother! ere! die, Give me three grains of corn. Miss Edwards. CXCIII. TELL'S APOSTROPHE TO LIBERTY. Once more I breathe the mountain air; once more I tread my own free hills! My lofty soul Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight, 'T is like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon-- With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard My own proud land; why did ye not hurl down The thundering avalanche, when at your feet The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath, Nay, even the breath of prayer, ere now, has brought Destruction on the hunter's head; and yet The tyrant passed in safety. God of heaven! Where slept thy thunderbolts?