THE SILK OF THE KINE.
DIRGE OF RORY O'MORE.
A.D. 1642.
Up the sea-sadden'd valley at evening's decline
A heifer walks lowing; ‘the Silk of the Kine;’
From the deep to the mountain she roams, and again
From the mountain's green urn to the purple-rimm'd main.
Whom seek'st thou, sad Mother? Thine own is not thine!
He dropp'd from the headland; he sank in the brine.
'Twas a dream! but in dream at thy foot did he follow
Through the meadow-sweet on by the marish and mallow!
Was he thine? Have they slain him? Thou seek'st him, not knowing
Thyself too art theirs, thy sweet breath and sad lowing!
Thy gold horn is theirs; thy dark eye, and thy silk!
And that which torments thee, thy milk, is their milk!
'Twas no dream, Mother Land! 'Twas no dream, Inisfail!
Hope dreams, but grief dreams not—the grief of the Gael!
From Leix and Ikerren to Donegal's shore
Rolls the dirge of thy last and thy bravest—O'More!
