For Grace O’Malley he grasped a skean,
And to Essex himself he said,
“My black colleen is a greater queen
Though she may not take your red.”
When Sarsfield swore by the Boyne’s red tide,
“Change kings and we’ll fight again,”
Sir Kevin replied, though his wounds were wide,
With an oath and a deep Amen!
At Gettysburgh’s fray he charged with Lee,
When Meagher he met with Meade.
“On the bars,” said he, “if we can’t agree,
We can strike for the stars at need.”
’Twas much the same in Paardeburg’s snare,
When he came on a Galway Blake,
“Though with Cronje I fare in his lion’s lair,
I spare you for Connaught’s sake.”
Sir Kevin O’Keane is in joyous mood,
And alive and strong to-day;
And “There never was good from Luther’s brood”
Is a thing that he’ll often say.
He is drinking deep of an old delight,
And the cry that the lost years call
Is ever the might of a smashing fight
For any good cause at all.
THE HOUSE OF THE STRANGE WOMAN
THE House of the Strange Woman
Whoso enters in,
Much shall he lose, but thereby
Much also shall he win.
The room is draped in velvet,
Sombre, funereal;
A grey, grey veil of silence
Enswathes it as a pall.
Her robes are of royal purple,
For ruler is she, I ween,
Exerting great dominion,
Captor and lure and queen.