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52 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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justin McCarthy (1830- )
TO MY BURIED RIFLE
From " Monomia "
DEEP, deep in the earth you must lie, my old friend, Though I once fondly hoped for a test of your worth. But alas for our hopes ! they are all at an end,
All gone like the smoke you so often sent forth. Your barrel will soon grow all yellow with rust,—
That barrel whose radiance I used to admire; But be not ashamed, though down in the dust; 'Twas not my old rifle, but we who hung fire.
Yet call us not cowards : the spirit was strong,
But famine our weakness too sorely had tried; And our arms had been cramped by the shackles so long
They could only hang powerless down by our side. It may have but needed one brave upward bound,—
Our limbs were too feeble to compass it then ; For you know that to lie very long on the ground,
Corrodes the best metal in rifles or men.
Yet our masters, all crushed as we are, should beware ! They have tried us too long; we may rally at length ; |
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