(A REPLY TO RUDYARD KIPLING)
The red, redeeming dawn
Kindled in Easter skies,
Falls like God's judgment on
Lawyers, and lords, and lies.
What care these evil things,
Though menaced and perplexed,
While Kipling's banjo strings
Blaspheme a sacred text?
Never did freemen stand,
Never were captains met,
From Dargai to the Rand,
From Parnell to De Wet,
Never, on native sod,
Weak Justice fared the worst,
But Kipling's Cockney "Gawd"
Most impotently cursed.
So now, when Lenten years
Burgeon, at last, to bless
This land of Faith and Tears
With fruitful nobleness,
The poet, for a coin,
Hands to the gabbling rout
A bucketful of Boyne
To put the sunrise out.
"Ulster" is ours, not yours,
Is ours to have and hold,
Our hills and lakes and moors
Have shaped her in our mould.
Derry to Limerick Walls
Fused us in battle flame;
Limerick to Derry calls
One strong-shared Irish name.
We keep the elder faith,
Not slain by Cromwell's sword;
Nor bribed to subtler death
By William's broken word.
Free from those chains, and free
From hate for hate endured,
We share the liberty
Our lavish blood assured.
One place, one dream, one doom,
One task and toil assigned,
Union of plough and loom
Have bound us and shall bind.
The wounds of labour healed,
Life rescued and made fair--
There lies the battlefield
Of Ulster's holy war.
TO IRELAND
Men so worthy
Suffered for Thee,
Men so poor can die;
Then come gather
All, or rather
Those who ask not why.
WAR POEMS
PADDY
(After Mr. Kipling)
I went into the talkin' shop to see about the Bill;
The Premier 'e ups and says: "We're waitin' ... waitin' still!"
The Tories grinned, and Balfour strung our gamble Haman-high,
I outs into the street again, and to meself sez I:
O, it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, an' "A cattle-driven crew!"
But 'twas "Murphy o' the Munsters!" when the trump of battle blew.
When the wind of battle blew, my boys, when the blast of battle blew,
It was Burke, and Shea and Kelly when we marched to Waterloo.
I looked into a newspaper to see about the land
That bred the man who broke the sin that Bonaparte planned;
They'd room for cricket scores, and tips, and trash of every kind,
But when I asked of Ireland's cause, it seemed to be behind.
For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, and "Don't annoy us, please!"
But it's "Irish Rifles forward--Fast!" when the bullets talk like bees,
When the bullets yawn like bees, my boys, when the bullets yawn like bees,
It's "Connaught blood is good enough" when they're chanting R.I.P's.
Yes! Sneerin' round at Irishmen, and Irish speech and ways
Is cheaper--much--than snatchin' guns from battle's red amaze:
And when the damned Death's-Head-Dragoons roll up the ruddy tide
The Times won't spare a Smith to tell how Dan O'Connell died.
For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, and "The Fifth'll prate and prance!"
But it's "Corks and Inniskillings--Front!" when Hell is loose in France,
When Clare and Kerry take the call that crowns the shrapnel dance,
O, it's "Find the Dublin Fusiliers!" when Hell is loose in France.
We ain't no saints or scholars much, but fightin' men and clean,
We've paid the price, and three times thrice for Wearin' o' the Green.
We held our hand out frank and fair, and half forgot Parnell,
For Ireland's hope and England's too--and it's yours to save or sell.
For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, "Who'll stop the Uhlan blade?"
But Tommy Fitz from Malahide, and Monaghan's McGlade,
When the ranks are set for judgment, lads, and the roses droop and fade,
It's "Ireland in the firin' line!" when the price of God is paid.
SERGEANT MIKE O'LEARY
It was Sergeant Mike O'Leary who broke the barricade,
Who took the chance, and won the Cross that crowns the bayonet trade;
'Twas "M'anam do Dhia," and "How's your heart," and "How could we forget?"
But Michael from Inchigeela will fill a ballad yet.
Oh! a fair and pleasant land is Cork for wit and courtesy,
Ballyvourney East and Baile Dubh and Kilworth to the sea:
And when they light the turf to-night, spit, stamp, swear as of yore,
It's the Sergeant Mike O'Leary's ghosts that ward the southern shore.