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The Irish Slave ©

(Written for the Irish who suffered as slaves during the 16 hundreds)

Elizabeth Allan
Ontario, Canada

Long ago there was a man that was of the blood of Chiefs,
yet as he held his sad head down he never thought of it.
His red hair glowed in the summer sun as his blue eyes shed a tear.
For the daughter that was taken from him and was also dear.
He knelt and prayed to the Father above for the happy memories to last,
fresh inside his thoughts, so he could see her at days end.
He looked and still saw her playing within the deep green glen
and he regretted not spending more time with all of his children.
yet he did not weep mournfully for he did not know it would end.
And that he would never watch his children play together again.
But as those soldiers took them off into that far, unknown land
one of the soldiers grabbed his youngest daughter from her Mother's arms,
and while the wagon set off she shouted,
Yet that was a promise so hard to keep, for they chained you
and enslaved you and put your children beyond your reach.
Yet for years he kept that promise, that was screamed at him with dread,
as she watched her child and husband taken far away for dead.
But in his mind, doubt was with him, for he would always be a slave,
and soon he would join his friends in those graves.
Yet hope he had for his daughter, that she might live to see freedom's light
and go back home to Ireland and live a normal life.
But sadly the day came that was dreaded many times,
and that was the disease and suffering which spread among the slaves.
He took care of his youngest daughter and told her not to die,
It was not until next night when he spoke into her ear
and realised with a parent's love that she was not there.
Her pale face showed a peace, that was not there
when she was a slave girl for all of these years.
The Irishman's hand shook with grief as he touched his daughter's hair and whispered.
"Goodnight my sweet one, even though you're not even there."
He wrapped her up so tightly in the quilt her Mother made,
and dug a grave so deeply, so no one would find her again.
And then he laid her in softly, the way he did at night,
way back home in Ireland when she hugged him, her goodnight.
It was then that the man broke down, as despair screamed inside,
he loved his last born daughter. "MY BABY!" he cried.
It was then that his eyes were staring upon his daughter's grave.
She was his sweetest daughter, yet she also was a slave.
A great tale it was I thought,
but I never thought it was true until I came across a grave that said.
"Goodnight my sweet one. The Daughter of An Irish Slave."

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