What had made these men, sane men--Ulstermen mostly--risk life and face death so gallantly? What brought out the men of '48 and the men of '67? What was making little Bigger fight so savagely in Parliament, blocking the legislation of the empire? What had got under their skins, into their blood? Surely not for a gray half-deserted city? Surely not for little bays and purple mountains? Surely not for an illiterate peasantry, half crazed by the fear of hell? He tried to see Ireland as a personality, as one sees England, like the great Britannia on a copper penny, helmeted, full-breasted, great-hipped, with sword and shield, a bourgeois concept of majesty, a ponderous, self-conscious personality: When Britain first, at Heaven's command Arose from out the azure main,-- Just like that! And Scotland he could see as a young woman, in kilt and plaid and Glengarry cap, a shrewd young woman though, with a very decisive personality, clinching a bargain as the best of dealers might, a little forward. He could think of her as the young girl whose hand Charles the Young Pretender kissed, and who had said to him directly: "I'd liefer hae a buss for my mou'." "I'd rather have a kiss on my mouth." Scotland knew what she wanted and got it, a pert, a solid, a likable girl. But Ireland, Ireland of the gray mists, the gray towns. How to see her? The country ballad came to him. The "Shan Van Vocht," the poor old woman, gray, shawled, pitiable, whom her children were seeking to reinstate in her home with many fields: And where will they have their camp? Says the Shan Van Vocht. And where will they have their camp? Says the Shan Van Vocht. In the Curragh of Klidare, The boys will all be there. With their pikes in good repair, Says the Shan Van Vocht. To the Curragh of Kildare The boys they will repair, And Lord Edward will be there, Says the Shan Van Vocht. No! Not enough. One might work, sacrifice money, for the Shan Van Vocht--but life, no! He thought again. Poor Mangan's poem flashed into his mind and heart.... O my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green They march along the deep. There's wine from the royal pope Upon the ocean green. And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My dark Rosaleen!