Revised Jun 1 2021
Summing Up Home Young
Rosalind A. Young
Pitcairn Islanders 1859-1880
Conclusion
We have everything that is required to render us contented and happy, and have friends whom God has raised up for us on every hand. Still, though such favors are shown us, we are far from being what we should be. While we pray that God would unceasingly bless them, we need also to pray that we may be more worthy of the numberless acts of kindness shown toward us, and seek, by our conduct, to be more worthy of the name of Christians, which we bear. True, none of the more glaring vices obtain amongst us, but in how many things do we frequently fall short of the duties required of us toward God and toward man!
Condition of the Island of Pitcairn in 1874.
Attend, ye people, and give ear,
While I my tale rehearse;
I'll tell of our condition here,
In this, my humble verse.
But how shall I begin? My rhyme
Will take some hours to do,
Or minutes, rather, at the most,
'Twill take twoscore and two.
Well, to begin: Last summer, we
Had such scorching drought
That every bush and every tree
Was burnt—the land throughout!
Our water, too, was very scarce;
Our 'tatoes did not yield
Enough to last a whole year through,
So heated was our field.
But February, in seventy-three,—
'Twas on the eighteenth day,—
Abundantly the rain did fall,
For which we long did pray.
Oh, could you see the changes then
The copious showers did make!
The land was all one mass of green,
And how the trees did shake!
For oh what joy they all did feel,
None but the trees could know,
Which once, though clothed in living green,
Had drunk their cup of woe!
A fairer prospect, then, we thought
Would on our island beam;
Ah, what short-sighted mortals we!
Before November came,
The drought, unwelcome visitor,
Began himself to show;
And the effects you may suppose,
For you already know.
This is first month in seventy-four;
The trees, which well had stood
The blast of fifty years and more,
Seem withering and nude.
The long-resisting orange-trees
Are conquered by the heat;
Their fruits are falling, and their leaves
Lie scattered at our feet.
And so of others I could name;
But, friends, let this suffice,
And turn to us, your brethren,
Your sympathizing eyes.
Each day, as hot and hotter grew,
The ground would burn our feet,
And thus we dance without the help
Of fiddle, fife, or beat.
Our skins would make you smile; each day
we black and blacker grew,
Till we look now like Indians,
Our eyes like fire-balls, too!
Have I your tender pity, friends,
Your heart of hearts have touched?
Yet bear with me awhile, for I
Have almost said enough.
Isle of our fathers, thou art now
Dusty and bare throughout,
The center of attraction for
The scorching, withering drought.
Alas! and must we leave thee, then!
Our hearts will cling to thee;
Yet will we pray that soon again
Thy richness we may see.
HOUSE ON PITCAIRN ISLAND. (DRAWN BY A NATIVE.)