"In a land where's plenty," The old mother said,— "But not for poor creatures Who pawn rags and bed— There's plenty for rich ones, and those far away, Who drain off our life-blood, so thoughtless and gay!" Heavily plod Highroad and sod, With the cold corpse clod, Whose soul is with God! Then wailed the third woman— "The darling was worth The rarest of jewels That shine upon earth. When hunger was gnawing her—wasted and wild— She shared her last morsel with my little child." Heavily plod Highroad and sod, With the cold corpse clod, Whose soul is with God! "O Christ!" pray'd the blind man, "We are not so poor, Though we bend 'neath the dear weight That crushes this door; For we know that the grave is the first step to Heaven, And a birthright we have in the riches there given." Heavily plod, Highroad and sod, With the cold corpse clod, Whose soul is with God! What wonder if the evicted peasants of Ireland, made desperate by the tyranny of the landlords, sometimes make "a law unto themselves," and slay their oppressors! Rebellion proves manhood under such circumstances. Instances of landlords being murdered by evicted tenants are numerous. In the following sketch we have a vivid illustration of this phase of Irish life:—