 | The Poems of Thomas Davis |  |
129
IV. PART IV. HISTORICAL BALLADS AND SONGS.
Second Series.
130
“By a Ballad History we do not mean a metrical chronicle, or any
continued work, but a string of ballads chronologically arranged, and
illustrating the main events of Irish History, its characters, costumes,
scenes, and passions.
Exact dates, subtle plots, minute connexions and motives, rarely appear
in Ballads; and for these ends the worst prose history is superior
to the best Ballad series; but these are not the highest ends of history.
To hallow or accurse the scenes of glory and honour, or of
shame and sorrow—to give to the imagination the arms, and homes,
and senates, and battles of other days—to rouse and soften and
strengthen and enlarge us with the passions of great periods—to lead
us into love of self-denial, of justice, of beauty, of valour, of generous
life and proud death—and to set up in our souls the memory of great
men, who shall then be as models and judges of our actions—these are
the highest duties of History, and these are best taught by a Ballad
History.”—
Davis's Essays.
131
THE PENAL DAYS.
I
Oh! weep those days, the penal days,When Ireland hopelessly complained.
Oh! weep those days, the penal days,
When godless persecution reigned;
When, year by year,
For serf, and peer,
Fresh cruelties were made by law,
And, filled with hate,
Our senate sate
To weld anew each fetter's flaw.
Oh! weep those days, those penal days—
Their memory still on Ireland weighs.
132
II
They bribed the flock, they bribed the son,To sell the priest and rob the sire;
Their dogs were taught alike to run
Upon the scent of wolf and friar.
Among the poor,
Or on the moor,
Were hid the pious and the true—
While traitor knave,
And recreant slave,
Had riches, rank, and retinue;
And, exiled in those penal days,
Our banners over Europe blaze.
III
A stranger held the land and towerOf many a noble fugitive;
No Popish lord had lordly power,
The peasant scarce had leave to live:
Above his head
A ruined shed,
No tenure but a tyrant's will—
Forbid to plead,
Forbid to read,
Disarmed, disfranchised, imbecile—
What wonder if our step betrays
The freedman, born in penal days?
133
IV
They're gone, they're gone, those penal days!All creeds are equal in our isle;
Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace,
Our ancient feuds to reconcile.
Let all atone
For blood and groan,
For dark revenge and open wrong;
Let all unite
For Ireland's right,
And drown our griefs in freedom's song;
Till time shall veil in twilight haze,
The memory of those penal days.
THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD.
A CHAUNT OF THE BRIGADE.
I
Sarsfield has sailed from Limerick Town,He held it long for country and crown;
And ere he yielded, the Saxon swore
To spoil our homes and our shrines no more.
134
II
Sarsfield and all his chivalryAre fighting for France in the low countrie—
At his fiery charge the Saxons reel,
They learned at Limerick to dread the steel.
III
Sarsfield is dying on Landen's plain;His corslet hath met the ball in vain—
As his life-blood gushes into his hand,
He says, “Oh! that this was for father-land!”
IV
Sarsfield is dead, yet no tears shed we—For he died in the arms of Victory,
And his dying words shall edge the brand,
When we chase the foe from our native land!
135
THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA.
(1702.)
I
From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode,And soft are the beds in his princely abode;
In billet and barrack the garrison sleep,
And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep:
'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze
Of that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese;
A flg for precaution!—Prince Eugene sits down
In winter cantonments round Mantua town!
II
Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain,Horse, foot, and dragoons are defiling amain.
“That flash!” said Prince Eugene, “Count Merci, push on”—
Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.
Proud mutters the prince— “That is Cassioli's sign:
Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona 'll be mine—
For Merci will open the gate of the Po,
But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew!”
136
III
Through gate, street and square, with his keen cavaliers—A flood through a gulley—Count Merci careers—
They ride without getting or giving a blow,
Nor halt 'till they graze on the gate of the Po—
“Surrender the gate”—but a volley replied,
For a handful of Irish are posted inside.
By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come rather late,
If he stay 'till Count Merci shall open that gate!
IV
But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians pour,And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore;
Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain—
There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villeroy's rein—
“A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse—
Release me, MacDonnell!”—they hold on their course.
Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall,
Prince Eugene's head-quarters are in the Town-hall!
V
Here and there, through the city, some readier band,For honour and safety, undauntedly stand.
At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke
Is Major O'Mahony, fierce as a Turk.
His sabre is flashing—the major is drest,
But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest!
Yet they rush to the ramparts—the clocks have tolled ten—
And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men.
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VI
“In on them,” said Friedberg,—and Dillon is broke,Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak;
Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers go;—
But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow.
Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball,
Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall—
Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel,
And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel.
VII
Oh! hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene?In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succour you lean!
The bridge has been broken, and, mark! how pell-mell
Come riderless horses, and volley and yell!—
He's a veteran soldier—he clenches his hands,
He springs on his horse, disengages his bands—
He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid,
He is chased through the gates by the Irish Brigade.
VIII
News, news, in Vienna!—King Leopold's sad.News, news, in St. James's!—King William is mad.
News, news, in Versailles—“Let the Irish Brigade
Be loyally honoured, and royally paid.”
News, news, in old Ireland—high rises her pride,
And high sounds her wail for her children who died,
And deep is her prayer,— “God send I may see
MacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me.”
138
THE FLOWER OF FINAE.
I
Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin,A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing,
While fair round its islets the small ripples play,
But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.
II
Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning,She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,
Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day,
Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae.
III
But who down the hill side than red deer runs fleeter?And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her?
Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay,
The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae?
IV
One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness;Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness—
He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay,
He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae.
V
For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land,And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland;
139
But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae.
VI
He fought at Cremona—she hears of his story;He fought at Cassano—she's proud of his glory,
Yet sadly she sings Siúbhail a rúin all the day,
“Oh, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae.”
VII
Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken-hearted,Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has parted;
She sails with the “Wild Geese” to Flanders away,
And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.
VIII
Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging—Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging—
Behind him the Cravats their sections display—
Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae.
IX
On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying,Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying,
Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array;
And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae.
X
In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying,And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying;
That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray;
This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae.
140
THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.
I
The dames of France are fond and free,And Flemish lips are willing,
And soft the maids of Italy,
And Spanish eyes are thrilling;
Still, though I bask beneath their smile,
Their charms fail to bind me,
And my heart flies back to Erin's isle,
To the girl I left behind me.
II
For she's as fair as Shannon's side,And purer than its water,
But she refused to be my bride
Though many a year I sought her;
Yet, since to France I sailed away,
Her letters oft remind me
That I promised never to gainsay
The girl I left behind me.
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III
She says—“My own dear love, come home,My friends are rich and many,
Or else abroad with you I'll roam
A soldier stout as any;
If you'll not come, nor let me go,
I'll think you have resigned me.”
My heart nigh broke when I answered—No!
To the girl I left behind me.
IV
For never shall my true love braveA life of war and toiling;
And never as a skulking slave
I'll tread my native soil on;
But, were it free or to be freed,
The battle's close would find me
To Ireland bound—nor message need
From the girl I left behind me.
142
CLARE'S DRAGOONS.
I
When, on Ramillies' bloody field,The baffled French were forced to yield,
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons.
The Flags, we conquered in that fray,
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say,
We'll win them company to-day,
Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright!
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II
The brave old lord died near the fight,But, for each drop he lost that night,
A Saxon cavalier shall bite
The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.
For, never, when our spurs were set,
And never, when our sabres met,
Could we the Saxon soldiers get
To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade!Viva la, the Old One, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the Shamrock shine for ever new!
III
Another Clare is here to lead,The worthy son of such a breed;
The French expect some famous deed,
When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons.
Our colonel comes from Brian's race,
His wounds are in his breast and face,
The bearna baoghail is still his place,
The foremost of his bold Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade!Viva la, the Old One, too
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the Shamrock shine for ever new!
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IV
There's not a man in squadron hereWas ever known to flinch or fear;
Though first in charge and last in rere,
Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons;
But, see! we'll soon have work to do,
To shame our boasts, or prove them true,
For hither comes the English crew,
To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed and sabre bright!
V
Oh! comrades! think how Ireland pines,Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons.
Then fling your Green Flag to the sky,
Be Limerick your battle-cry,
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high,
Around the track of Clare's Dragoons!
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade!Viva la, the Old One, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the Shamrock shine for ever new!
145
WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW.
I
Why sits the gentle maiden there,While surfing billows splash around?
Why doth she southwards wildly stare,
And sing, with such a fearful sound—
“The Wild Geese fly where others walk;
The Wild Geese do what others talk—
The way is long from France, you know—
He'll come at last when south winds blow.”
II
Oh! softly was the maiden nurstIn Castle Connell's lordly towers,
Where Skellig's billows boil and burst,
And, far above, Dunkerron towers;
And she was noble as the hill—
Yet battle-flags are nobler still:
And she was graceful as the wave—
Yet who would live a tranquil slave?
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III
And, so, her lover went to France,To serve the foe of Ireland's foe;
Yet deep he swore—“Whatever chance,
I'll come some day when south winds blow.”
And prouder hopes he told beside,
How she should be a prince's bride,
How Louis would the Wild Geese send,
And Ireland's weary woes should end.
IV
But tyrants quenched her father's hearth,And wrong and absence warped her mind;
The gentle maid, of gentle birth,
Is moaning madly to the wind—
“He said he'd come, whate'er betide:
He said I'd be a happy bride:
Oh! long the way and hard the foe—
He'll come when south—when south winds blow!”
The recruiting for the Brigade was carried on in the French ships which smuggled brandies, wines, silks, &c., to the western and south-western coasts. Their return cargoes were recruits for the Brigade, and were entered in their books as Wild Geese. Hence this became the common name in Ireland for the Irish serving in the Brigade. The recruiting was chiefly from Clare, Limerick, Cork, Kerry, and Galway. —Author's Note.
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THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE.
I
The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set,And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet;
The vet'ran arose, like an uplifted lance,
Crying—“Comrades, a health to the monarch of France!”
With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade,
For King Louis is loved by The Irish Brigade.
II
“A health to King James,” and they bent as they quaffed,“Here's to George the Elector,” and fiercely they laughed,
“Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago,
Where Shannon, and Barrow, and Blackwater flow;”
“God prosper Old Ireland;”—you'd think them afraid,
So pale grew the chiefs of The Irish Brigade.
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III
“But, surely, that light cannot come from our lamp?And that noise—are they all getting drunk in the camp?”
“Hurrah! boys, the morning of battle is come,
And the generale's beating on many a drum.”
So they rush from the revel to join the parade:
For the van is the right of The Irish Brigade.
IV
They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and true,And, though victors, they left on the field not a few;
And they, who survived, fought and drank as of yore,
But the land of their heart's hope they never saw more;
For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade,
Lie the soldiers and chiefs of The Irish Brigade.
149
FONTENOY.
(1745.)
I
Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed,And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.
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II
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they climb the hill;
Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right on-ward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force:
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks—
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks.
III
More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round;As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired—
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired.
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To death they rush, but rude their shock—not unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod—King Louis turns his rein:
“Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, “the Irish troops remain;”
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true.
IV
“Lord Clare,” he says, “you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!”The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay,
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day—
The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry,
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown,—
Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.
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V
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,‘Fix bay’nets”—“charge,”—Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battlewind—
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!
“Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanach!”
VI
Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang:
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore;
153
The green hill side is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack.
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field is fought and won!
THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION.
(1782.)
I
The church of Dungannon is full to the door,And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor,
While helmet and shako are ranged all along,
Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng.
In the front of the altar no minister stands,
But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands;
And though solemn the looks and the voices around,
You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound.
Say! what do they hear in the temple of prayer?
Oh! why in the fold has the lion his lair?
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II
Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle,By English oppression, and falsehood, and guile;
Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered,
To guard it for England the North volunteered.
From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast—
Still they stood to their guns when the danger had past,
For the voice of America came o'er the wave,
Crying—Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the slave!—
Jndignation and shame through their regiments speed
They have arms in their hands, and what more do they need?
III
O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are spread,The cities of Leinster resound to their tread,
The vallies of Munster with ardour are stirred,
And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles have heard;
A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere—
For—forbidden the arms of freemen to bear—
Yet foeman and friend are full sure, if need be,
The slave for his country will stand by the free.
By green flags supported, the Orange flags wave,
And the soldier half turns to unfetter the slave!
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IV
More honoured that church of Dungannon is now,Than when at its altar communicants bow;
More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayer,
Are the rites and the thoughts of the warriors there;
In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore:
“We've suffered too long, and we'll suffer no more—
Unconquered by Force, we were vanquished by Fraud;
And now, in God's temple, we vow unto God,
That never again shall the Englishman bind
His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our mind.”
V
The church of Dungannon is empty once more—No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor.
But the councils of England are fluttered to see,
In the cause of their country, the Irish agree;
So they give as a boon what they dare not withhold,
And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old,
With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her own,
And an army to fight for the people and throne.
But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fears
She surrender the guns of her brave Volunteers!
156
SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782.
I
Hurrah! 'tis done—our freedom's won—Hurrah for the Volunteers!
No laws we own, but those alone
Of our Commons, King, and Peers.
The chain is broke—the Saxon yoke
From off our neck is taken;
Ireland awoke—Dungannon spoke—
With fear was England shaken.
II
When Grattan rose, none dared opposeThe claim he made for freedom:
They knew our swords, to back his words,
Were ready, did he need them.
Then let us raise, to Grattan's praise,
A proud and joyous anthem;
And wealth, and grace, and length of days,
May God, in mercy grant him!
157
III
Bless Harry Flood, who nobly stoodBy us, through gloomy years!
Bless Charlemont, the brave and good,
The Chief of the Volunteers!
The North began; the North held on
The strife for native land;
Till Ireland rose, and cowed her foes—
God bless the Northern land!
IV
And bless the men of patriot pen—Swift, Molyneux, and Lucas;
Bless sword and gun, which “Free Trade” won—
Bless God! who ne'er forsook us!
And long may last, the friendship fast,
Which binds us all together;
While we agree, our foes shall flee
Like clouds in stormy weather.
V
Remember still, through good and ill,How vain were prayers and tears—
How vain were words, till flashed the swords
Of the Irish Volunteers.
By arms we've got the rights we sought
Through long and wretched years—
Hurrah! 'tis done, our Freedom's won—
Hurrah for the Volunteers!
158
THE MEN OF 'EIGHTY-TWO
I
To rend a cruel chain,To end a foreign reign,
The swords of the Volunteers were drawn,
And instant from their sway,
Oppression fled away;
So we'll drink them in a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
We'll drink them in a crúisgín lán!
II
Within that host were seenThe Orange, Blue, and Green—
The Bishop for it's coat left his lawn—
The peasant and the lord
Ranked in with one accord,
Like brothers at a crúisgín \lán, lán, lán,
Like brothers at a crúisgín lán!
III
With liberty there cameWit, eloquence, and fame;
Our feuds went like mists from the dawn;
159
Old privilege retained—
Oh! sages, fill a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
And, boys! fill up a crúisgín lán!
IV
The trader's coffers filled,The barren lands were tilled,
Our ships on the waters thick as spawn—
Prosperity broke forth,
Like summer in the north—
Ye merchants! fill a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
Ye farmers! fill a crúisgín lán!
V
The memory of that dayShall never pass away,
Tho' its fame shall be yet outshone;
We'll grave it on our shrines,
We'll shout it in our lines—
Old Ireland! fill a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
Young Ireland! fill a crúisgín lán!
VI
And drink—The Volunteers,Their generals, and seers,
Their gallantry, their genius, and their brawn
With water, or with wine—
The draught is but a sign—
The purpose fills the crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
This purpose fills the crúisgín lán!
160
VII
That ere Old Ireland goes,And while Young Ireland glows,
The swords of our sires be girt on,
And loyally renew
The work of 'Eighty-Two—
Oh! gentlemen—a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
Our freedom! in a crúisgín lán!
NATIVE SWORDS.
(A VOLUNTEER SONG.—1st JULY,1792.)
I
We've bent too long to braggart wrong,While force our prayers derided;
We've fought too long, ourselves among,
By knaves and priests divided;
United now, no more we'll bow,
Foul faction, we discard it;
And now, thank God! our native sod
Has Native Swords to guard it.
161
II
Like rivers, which, o'er valleys rich,Bring ruin in their water,
On native land, a native hand
Flung foreign fraud and slaughter.
From Dermod's crime to Tudor's time
Our clans were our perdition;
Religion's name, since then, became
Our pretext for division.
III
But, worse than all, with Lim'rick's fallOur valour seem'd to perish;
Or, o'er the main, in France and Spain,
For bootless vengeance flourish.
The peasant, here, grew pale for fear
He'd suffer for our glory,
While France sang joy for Fontenoy,
And Europe hymned our story.
IV
But, now, no clan, nor factious plan,The East and West can sunder—
Why Ulster e'er should Munster fear,
Can only wake our wonder.
Religion's crost, when union's lost,
And “royal gifts” retard it;
But now, thank God! our native sod
Has Native Swords to guard it.
162
TONE'S GRAVE.
I
In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,And wildly along it the winter winds rave;
Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there,
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare.
II
Once I lay on that sod—it lies over Wolfe Tone—And thought how he perished in prison alone,
His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed—
“Oh, bitter,” I said, “is the patriot's meed;
III
For in him the heart of a woman combinedWith a heroic life, and a governing mind—
A martyr for Ireland—his grave has no stone—
His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown.
IV
I was woke from my dream by the voices and treadOf a band, who came into the home of the dead;
They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone,
And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone.
163
V
There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave,And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave,
And children who thought me hard-hearted; for they,
On that sanctified sod, were forbidden to play.
VI
But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said,“We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid,
And we're going to raise him a monument, too—
A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true.”
VII
My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand,And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band;
“Sweet! sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can remain
To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain.”
VIII
In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,And freely around it let winter winds rave—
Far better they suit him—the ruin and gloom,—
Till Ireland, a Nation, can build him a tomb.
| The Poems of Thomas Davis | |