Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE POTATO DIGGER'S SONG, by THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE POTATO DIGGER'S SONG, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Come, connal, acushla, turn the clay
Last Line: Of ireland.
Subject(s): Farm Life; Agriculture; Farmers


Come, Connal, acushla, turn the clay,
And show the lumpers the light, gossoon!
For we must toil this Autumn day,
With heaven's help, till rise of the moon.
Our corn is stacked, our hay secure,
Thank God! and nothing, my boy, remains
But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure,
Before the coming November rains.
The Peasant's mine is his harvest still;
So now, my lads, let's work with a will;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand,
Through the crumbly mould,
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.

Och, I wish that Maurice and Mary dear
Were singing beside us this soft day!
Of course they're far better off than here;
But whether they're happier, who can say?
I've heard when it's morn with us, 'tis night
With them on the far Australian shore;
Well, Heaven be about them with visions bright,
And send them childer and money galore.
With us there's many a mouth to fill,
And so, my boy, let's work with a will;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
Through the brown, dry mould.
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.

Ah, then, Paddy O'Reardon, you thundering Turk,
Is it coorting you are in the blessed noon?
Come over here, Kitty, and mind your work,
Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune.
Well youth will be youth, as you know, Mike,
Sixteen and twenty for each were meant;
But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avic,
Defer your proposals till after Lent;
And as love in this country lives mostly still
On potatoes, dig boy, dig with a will;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
Through the harvest mould.
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.

Down the bridle road the neighbours ride,
Through the light ash shade, by the wheaten sheaves,
And the children sing on the mountain side,
In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves;
As the great sun sets in glory furled,
Faith it's grand to think as I watch his face,
If he never sets on the English world,
He never, lad, sets on the Irish race.
In the West, in the South, new Irelands still
Grow up in his light; come, work with a will;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
Through the native mould.
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.

But look! the round moon, yellow as corn,
Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm;
It scarcely seems a day since morn;
Well, the heel of the evening to you, ma'am!
God bless the moon! for many a night,
As I restless lay on troubled bed,
When rent was due, her quieting light
Has flattered with dreams my poor old head.
But see--the basket remains to fill.
Come, girls, be alive; boys, dig with a will;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand,
Through the moonlit mould
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.





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