We do the will of the Mother,
We bow to the Word she sends,
Though we know not whither we journey,
Nor the goal where the journey ends.
On the quest of the Strange Adventure
We sally, hand-in-hand,
As the men of the days nomadic
When the Hunter was lord in the land.
The winds asweep through the forests
Shall brace our souls for the march,
The balm of the dews descending
Shall chasten the heats that parch.
Through vista of brakes entangled
The stars shall guide, in the night,
By day the sun shall quicken
The pulse of our life’s delight.
Ho! for the zest of travel,
The wayfarer’s romance,
The joy of the unexpected,
The hope of the noble chance.
We have girded our feet with sandals,
We carry the pilgrim’s load.
In the ranks of the Free Companions
We take to the Open Road.
THE COUNTRY OF THE YOUNG
To H. A. MacC.
THERE is a kingdom cool and green,
Washed by the ever-moaning sea,
From whose wild surf, with furious mien,
Lir’s war-hounds struggle to be free.
The tempest breaks on tower and tree,
Exultantly proud winds are flung.
Joy in the storm the watchers see—
It is the country of the young.
There is a land that loved the green
Through all the sullen, bitter years,
The vengeance of the Tudor queen,
Swart Cromwell’s wrath, proud Strafford’s fears;
The Boyne’s despair and Limerick’s fears:
They fade, they die, as runes long sung.
Youth springs triumphant down the years—
It is the country of the young.
There is a land where hope is green.
Exultant in the eastern sky
Flashes a dawn whose golden sheen
Shall fall where Tone and Emmet lie.
The brave hearts sleep, they cannot die;
They speak to all with deathless tongue
Who serve the Cause with purpose high
Within the country of the young.
L’Envoi
FAIR is your crown, Dark Rosaleen.
For you are silver joy-bells swung.
A nation comes to hail you queen,
All in the country of the young.