The Hungry Grass

The Hungry Grass

(Caoineadh an Gorta Mór)

It is the green of the grass,  The hungry grass, That mocks them as they pass. The taste in their mouths, The cud they spit out, With their slow steps to the boats.

And try as they might They couldn't keep the blight From eating their black crop. The weak and the old, As the grass had foretold, They soon began to drop.

Chorus And they gave them 'Yaller Indian meal', The gave them stones to split — They sucked pebbles in their hungry mouths To save their vital spit; And the hungry grass, The hungry grass Was all they had to eat.

As they’re looking back They can see the tracks Where the hungry grass grows still. They can see the bones And hear the moans From the plain and from the hill.

From Mizen up to Malin Head A million sailed A million dead And the hungry grass That all had passed It grew and mocked them still.

Chorus A million buried in the clay, Another million sailed away From the shores, The hungry shores. And their cries, and their Keen O the hungry grass was green.

— © Frank Callery, April 25th, 2017.