Fame's on the wing and death's in the valleys, War's on the world and Freedom's the prize, Who, with head high, marches on with the Allies, Ireland, 'tis she, with her glorified eyes. Guiding her sons where the onset is fiercest, Fearless of death, how she leads them along, And where she rides, her mighty lance piercest, As she sings the wild chant of the Celt's battle song. Rangers of Connaught and Fusileers famous, Irishmen all from the North to Dunloe, Paddy and Michael and Terry and Shamus, Oh, what a name they've made fighting the foe! Down in the Balkans, in France, or in Flanders, No matter where, sure 'tis ever the same, Whether as privates or Marshal Commanders, Ever on Ireland they've shed deathless fame. Song of the Allies, sure that's "Tipperary", Whose armies march to the lilt of that song. Who thrilled the world? sure 'twas Michael O'Leary! Irish,--the lad could to none else belong. Oh, the long wait, now the blest vindication, Ireland, asthore, smile again, 'tis the dawn; Lo--on thy banners, see, Ireland a Nation, The cloud has been lifted, the darkness is gone! KISMET IN MEMORY OF THE DEATH OF LORD KITCHENER The Sea has garnered what the Land would keep, The Orkneys' brine enshrouds him in its gloom. Unphrased, mysterious, he sank to sleep In ocean deeps that darken o'er his tomb. What message sealed his dead and sphinx-like lips Up from his great heart, yearning to be told, While strained in agony the stricken ship Amid that wilderness of waters cold? Methought while death's tubed menace sped the waves The Sea exultant cried from vengeful crests, "Him take I captive to my sombre caves, For my lost Nelson, whom the land invests; It prisons still my noblest sailor son, So from the Land I take its peerless one." He planned in continents and Empire hewed, Moulding from out the waste an ordered world, Striding a bronzed Colossus, grim and rude, O'er Afric veldt and Egypt's sands, storm-swirled, Pressing Imperial-purposed, to his goal; Before, his country's high and luminous star, He on her altar laid his splendid soul. Bequeathed in martyrdom of glorious war. Beside the Cyprus hills or Nubian sands, By Libya's stony, terraced, huge plateau, Within the trackless silence, "what commands!" Whispered the Sphinx, his ear alone to know. What portents shaped the wild sirocco's rage Where Memnon tunes across the plain at dawn? Saw he the vast armies of the west engage In strife stupendous, in those days agone, When by the Nile he conquered at Khartoum? Saw he unmoved the vision of his doom?