I sit beside my darling's grave,
Who in the prison died,
And tho' my tears fall thick and fast,
I think of him with pride:—
Ay, softly fall my tears like dew,
For one to God and Ireland true.
'I love my God o'er all,' he said,
'And then I love my land,
And next I love my Lily sweet,
Who pledged me her white hand:—
To each—to all—I'm ever true,
To God—to Ireland and to you.'
No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed
Or softly raised his head:—
He fell asleep and woke in heaven
Ere I knew he was dead;—
Yet why should I my darling rue?
He was to God and Ireland true.
O, 'tis a glorious memory;
I'm prouder than a queen
To sit beside my hero's grave
And think on what has been:—
And O, my darling, I am true
To God—to Ireland and to you!
Ellen O'Leary
THE BANSHEE
Green, in the wizard arms,
Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,
An isle of old enchantment,
A melancholy isle,
Enchanted and dreaming lies;
And there, by Shannon's flowing,
In the moonlight, spectre thin,
The spectre Erin sits.
An aged desolation
She sits by old Shannon's flowing,
A mother of many children,
Of children exiled and dead,
In her home, with bent head, homeless,
Clasping her knees she sits,
Keening, keening!
And at her keene the fairy-grass
Trembles on dun and barrow;
Around the foot of her ancient crosses
The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings;
In haunted glens the meadow-sweet
Flings to the night-wind
Her mystic mournful perfume;
The sad spearmint by holy wells
Breathes melancholy balm.
Sometimes she lifts her head,
With blue eyes tearless,
And gazes athwart the reek of night
Upon things long past,
Upon things to come.