SONG.
I
Not always the winter! not always the wail!
The heart heals perforce where the spirit is pure!
The apple smells sweet in the glens of Imayle;
The blackbird sings loud by the Slane and the Suir!
There are princes no more in Kincora and Tara,
But the gold-flower laughs out from the Mague at Athdara;
And the Spring-tide that wakens the leaf in the bud,
Sad Mother, forgive us, shoots joy through our blood!
II
Not always the winter! not always the moan!
Our fathers, they tell us, in old time were free:
Free to-day is the stag in the woods of Idrone,
And the eagle that fleets from Loch Lene o'er the Lee!
The blue-bells rise up where the young May hath trod;
The souls of our martyrs are reigning with God!
Sad Mother, forgive us! yon skylark no choice
Permits us! From heaven he is crying ‘Rejoice!’
