Anti-slavery bugle, 25th June, 1847 p4
We find the following poem in a late Irish paper.
EO’D
I’m loth to wake ye, Art, my dear
But the steps of a stranger are drawing near
Up the rickety stair they come,
Making, I think, for our wretched room;
Rise, Art, rise! the last shilling’s spent
Art, it’s the sheriff – the rent – the rent!
See, daylight has lit on the window-sill
Art! is it you to be slumbering still?
Ye know that at last we must quit or pay,
Though ye didn’t expect the distress today!
Rise, Art, rise! the last shilling’s spent
Art, it’s the sheriff – the rent – the rent!
At the door! Oh a month to make up what’s due!
The landlord, he knows, Art, your word is true;
If he saw how we strive, he’d put off the sale;
’Twas the will of God that the trade should fail!
Rise, Art, rise! the last shilling’s spent
Art, it’s the sheriff – the rent – the rent!
EO’D
In days gone by it was Ireland’s pride
To be decked in the web that our looms supplied:
Those were the times, Art, ye took me home,
And told me that love would make business come.
Rise, Art, rise! the last shilling’s spent
Art, it’s the sheriff – the rent – the rent!
It’s hunger, Art, that has made ye weak
What can I think of, your fast to break?
Here, Art, here is my wedding ring,
The lodgers will lend on the blessed thing!
Rise, Art, rise! the last shilling’s spent
Art, it’s the sheriff – the rent – the rent!
God forgive me! my heart is torn
To drag ye from bed this bitter morn;
The bed that they’re coming to seize and sell
Where I’ve nursed and prayed by ye, sick and well!
Rise, Art, rise! the last shilling’s spent
Art, it’s the sheriff – the rent – the rent!
How silent he sleeps! not a stir, or breath!
Poor famishing husband, you’re work’d to death!
At the shuttle before and after the sun
And a morsel of meal when the day is done!
Rise, Art, rise! the last shilling’s spent
Art, it’s the sheriff – the rent – the rent!
Dead! Oh, my God! it is over at last
The wearisome struggle is past – is past!
The heavens be praised! ‘tisn’t you need fear,
’Tis your widow that’s desolate, husband dear!
Rise, Art, rise, to the happy skies,
Where the tear is wiped from the poor man’s eyes!
The Burren and Beyond 