‘O, then, tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, where the gath’rin’ is to be?’
‘At the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me;
One word more—for signal token, whistle up the marchin’ tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin’ o’ the moon.’
Out from many a mud-wall cabin eyes were watching through that night,
Many a manly heart was throbbing for the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the valleys, like the banshee’s lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon.
There, beside the singing river, that dark mass of men was seen—
Far above the shining weapons hung their own beloved Green.
‘Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! strike the marchin’ tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom! ’tis the risin’ o’ the moon!’
Well they fought for poor old Ireland, and full bitter was their fate;
(O, what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of Ninety-Eight!)
Yet, thank God, e’en still are beating hearts in manhood’s burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps at the rising of the moon!
John Keegan Casey.
ROLLESTON
CLXXXVII
THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS
(From the Irish of Angus O’Gillan)
In a quiet-water’d land, a land of roses,
Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair;
And the warriors of Erinn in their famous generations
Slumber there