Is it right, is it fair,
That we perish of despair
In this land, on this soil,
Where our destiny is set,
Which we cultured with our toil
And watered with our sweat?
We have plowed, we have sown,
But the crop was not our own;
We have reaped, but harpy hands
Swept the harvest from our lands.
— DENIS FLORENCE MacCARTHY, Ireland (1847), Bryant's Library of Poetry, p. 579
That we perish of despair
In this land, on this soil,
Where our destiny is set,
Which we cultured with our toil
And watered with our sweat?
We have plowed, we have sown,
But the crop was not our own;
We have reaped, but harpy hands
Swept the harvest from our lands.
— DENIS FLORENCE MacCARTHY, Ireland (1847), Bryant's Library of Poetry, p. 579
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