EIRE
RED Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of ancient days,
You dream apart among your moss-grown ways, While round your drowsy head the Druid past A mazy web of memories has cast, As once round blinded Fergus in Emain.
There comes a bloodier than the heathen Dane, A crueller than Cromwell. Do not see.
Eastward is blood, and sweat, and agony.
In your deaf ears let the Atlantic call From Ballydonegan to Donegal.
Angels of Light there were, when Satan fell,
That would not fight for Heaven nor for Hell— The Saints may pardon you. Men may not blame—
Your shame forgotten in a world of shame.
And Eire's ancient dead, the brave that sleep In Clonmacnois—fear not lest they should weep.
The white waves hid Cuchulain long ago, And earth are Usna's sons—they will not know.
Dream on, forgetful of your ancient praise.
Red Rose, sad Rose, sick Rose of later days.
F. L. LUC.AS.
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