The Exile’s Meditation by Thomas D’Arcy McGee

Alone in this mighty city, queen of the continent!
I ponder on my people's fate in grief and discontent —
Alas! that I have lived to see them wiled and cast away,
And driven like soulless cattle from their native land a prey.

These men, are they not our brethren, grown at our mother's breast?
Are they not come of the Celtic blood, in Europe held the best?
Are they not heirs of Brian, and children of Eoghan's race,
Who rose up like baited tigers and sprung in the foeman's face?

And why should they seek another shore, to live in another land?
Had they not plenty at their feet, and sickles in their hand?
Did an earthquake march upon them, did Nature make them flee,
Or do they fly for fear, and to seek some ready-made Liberty?

I have read in ancient annals of a race of gallant men
Who fear'd neither Dane nor devil; but it is long since then —
And "cowardice is virtue,'' so runs the modern creed —
The starving suicide is praised and sainted for the deed!