Chapter CLXXXVI: The Rising of the Moon

(1798)

‘O, then, tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, tell me why you hurry so?’
‘Hush, _ma bouchal_, hush and listen;’ and his cheeks were all aglow:
‘I bear orders from the Captain--get you ready quick and soon;
For the pikes must be together at the risin’ o’ the moon.’

‘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

There below the dewy hillside sleep the noblest
Of the Clan of Conn,
Each beneath his stone with name in branching Ogham
And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
There the sons of Cairbrè sleep--
Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses
Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,
And right many a lord of Breagh;
Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,
Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter
In the red earth lies at rest;
Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
Many a swan-white breast.

_Thomas William Rolleston._

HINKSON

CLXXXVIII

SHAMROCK SONG

O the red rose may be fair,
And the lily statelier;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the very heart of me!

Many a lover hath the rose
When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows;
And in many a bower is heard
Her sweet praise from bee and bird.

Through the gold hours dreameth she,
In her warm heart passionately,
Her fair face hung languid-wise:
O her breath of honey and spice!

Like a fair saint virginal
Stands your lily silver and tall;
Over all the flowers that be
Is my shamrock dear to me.

Shines the lily like the sun,
Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun;
With her austere lip she sings
To her heart of heavenly things.

Gazeth through a night of June
To her sister-saint the moon;
With the stars communeth long
Of the angels and their song.

But when summer died last year
Rose and lily died with her;
Shamrock stayeth every day,
Be the winds or gold or grey.

Irish hills, grey as the dove,
Know the little plant I love;
Warm and fair it mantles them,
Stretching down from throat to hem.

And it laughs o’er many a vale,
Sheltered safe from storm and gale;
Sky and sun and stars thereof
Love the gentle plant I love.

Soft it clothes the ruined floor,
Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,
And the still home of the dead
With its green is carpeted.

Roses for an hour of love,
With the joy and pain thereof;
Stand my lilies white to see
All for prayer and purity.

These are white as the harvest moon,
Roses flush like the heart of June;
But my shamrock brave and gay,
Glads the tired eyes every day.

O the red rose shineth rare,
And the lily saintly fair;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the inmost heart of me!

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson._

JOHNSON

CLXXXIX

WAYS OF WAR

A terrible and splendid trust
Heartens the host of Inisfail:
Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,
A lighting glory of the Gael.

Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers,
And Tara the assembling place:
But each sweet wind of Ireland bears
The trump of battle on its race.

From Dursey Isle to Donegal,
From Howth to Achill, the glad noise
Rings: and the heirs of glory fall,
Or victory crowns their fighting joys.

A dream! a dream! an ancient dream!
Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail,
Some weapons on some field must gleam,
Some burning glory fire the Gael.

That field may lie beneath the sun,
Fair for the treading of an host:
That field in realms of thought be won,
And armed minds do their uttermost:

Some way, to faithful Inisfail,
Shall come the majesty and awe
Of martial truth, that must prevail,
To lay on all the eternal law.

_Lionel Johnson._