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