Well they fought for poor old Ireland, and full bitter was their fate; (O, what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of Ninety-Eight!) Yet, thank God, e’en still are beating hearts in manhood’s burning noon, Who would follow in their footsteps at the rising of the moon! _John Keegan Casey._ ROLLESTON CLXXXVII THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS (_From the Irish of Angus O’Gillan_) In a quiet-water’d land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair; And the warriors of Erinn in their famous generations Slumber there There below the dewy hillside sleep the noblest Of the Clan of Conn, Each beneath his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon. There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbrè sleep-- Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep. And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray. Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast. _Thomas William Rolleston._ HINKSON CLXXXVIII SHAMROCK SONG O the red rose may be fair, And the lily statelier; But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the very heart of me! Many a lover hath the rose When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows; And in many a bower is heard Her sweet praise from bee and bird. Through the gold hours dreameth she, In her warm heart passionately, Her fair face hung languid-wise: O her breath of honey and spice! Like a fair saint virginal Stands your lily silver and tall; Over all the flowers that be Is my shamrock dear to me. Shines the lily like the sun, Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun; With her austere lip she sings To her heart of heavenly things. Gazeth through a night of June To her sister-saint the moon; With the stars communeth long Of the angels and their song. But when summer died last year Rose and lily died with her; Shamrock stayeth every day, Be the winds or gold or grey. Irish hills, grey as the dove, Know the little plant I love; Warm and fair it mantles them, Stretching down from throat to hem. And it laughs o’er many a vale, Sheltered safe from storm and gale; Sky and sun and stars thereof Love the gentle plant I love. Soft it clothes the ruined floor, Of many an abbey, grey and hoar, And the still home of the dead With its green is carpeted. Roses for an hour of love, With the joy and pain thereof; Stand my lilies white to see All for prayer and purity. These are white as the harvest moon, Roses flush like the heart of June; But my shamrock brave and gay, Glads the tired eyes every day.