The Tricolour: Poems of the Irish Revolution - Dora Sigerson Shorter

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      THE SACRED FIRE

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      They lit a fire within their land that long was ashes cold,

       With splendid dreams they made it glow, threw in their hearts of gold.

       They saw thy slowly paling cheek and knew thy failing breath,

       They bade thee live once more, Kathleen, who was so nigh to death.

       And who dare quench the sacred fire, and who dare give them blame,

       Since he who draws too near the glow shall break into a flame?

       They lit a beacon in their land, built of the souls of men,

       To make thee warm once more, Kathleen, to bid thee live again.

      ​

      SIXTEEN DEAD MEN

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      Hark! in the still night. Who goes there?

      “Fifteen dead men” Why do they wait? “Hasten, comrade, death is so fair.” Now comes their Captain through the dim gate. Sixteen dead men! What on their sword? “A nation's honour proud do they bear.” What on their bent heads? “God's holy word; All of their nation's heart blended in prayer.” Sixteen dead men! What makes their shroud? “All of their nation's love wraps them around.” Where do their bodies lie, brave and so proud? “Under the gallows-tree in prison ground.” Sixteen dead men! Where do they go? “To join their regiment, where Sarsfield leads; Wolfe Tone and Emmet, too, well do they know. There shall they bivouac, telling great deeds.”

      ​

       Sixteen dead men! Shall they return?

      “Yea, they shall come again, breath of our breath. They on our nation's hearth made old fires burn. Guard her unconquered soul, strong in their death.”

      ​

      CONSCRIPTION

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      There is a shadow on the head I love,

       There is a danger lurks thy path upon,

       It murmurs low as coos the mating dove,

       It calls in grey and gathered clouds above,

       For thee, for thee, Kathleen ni-Houlihan.

       It hides in seas that beat about thy shores,

       The wind in passing whispers and is gone,

       And the brown leaf no summer will restore,

       Flutters this cry on Winter's russet floor,

       Danger to thee, Kathleen ni-Houlihan.

       God of the seas disperse the gathered gloom,

       God of the skies smile her sweet path upon,

       God of the earth this danger swift entomb,

       Slay the wild beast that creeps to bring her doom.

       Save her, save her, Kathleen ni-Houlihan!

      ​

      SICK I AM AND SORROWFUL

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      Sick I am and sorrowful, how can I be well again

       Here, where fog and darkness are, and big guns boom all day,

       Practising for evil sport? If you speak humanity,

       Hatred comes into each face, and so you cease to pray.

       How I dread the sound of guns, hate the bark of musketry,

       Since the friends I loved are dead, all stricken by the sword.

       Full of anger is my heart, full of rage and misery;

       How can I grow well again, or be my peace restored?

       If I were in Glenmalure, or in Enniskerry now,

       Hearing of the coming spring in the pinetree's song;

      ​

      If I woke on Arran Strand, dreamt me on the cliffs of Moher,

       Could I not grow gay again, should I not be strong?

       If I stood with eager heart on the heights of Carrantuohill,

       Beaten by the four great winds into hope and joy again,

       Far above the cannons' roar or the scream of musketry,

       If I heard the four great seas, what were weariness or pain?

       Were I in a little town, Ballybunion, Ballybrack,

       Laughing with the children there, I would sing and dance once more,

       Heard again the storm clouds roll hanging over Lugnaquilla,

       Built dream castles from the sands of Killiney's golden shore.

       If I saw the wild geese fly over the dark lakes of Kerry

       Or could hear the secret winds, I could kneel and pray.

      ​

      But 'tis sick I am and grieving, how can I be well again

       Here, where fear and sorrow are—my heart so far away?

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