Ways of War

A TERRIBLE and splendid trust,

Heartens the host of Innisfail;

Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust; The lightning 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 airs of glory fall,

Or victory crowns their fighting joys.

A dream! a dream! an ancient dream!
Yet, ere peace come to Innisfail,
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 Innisfail,

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

LIONEL JOHNSON.

This Heritage to the Race of Kings

THIS heritage to the race of kings,

Their children and their children's seed Have wrought their prophecies in deed Of terrible and splendid things.

The hands that fought, the hearts that broke
In old immortal tragedies,

These have not failed beneath the skies,
Their children's heads refuse the yoke.

And still their hands shall guard the sod
That holds their father's funeral urn,
Still shall their hearts volcanic burn
With anger of the sons of God.

No alien sword shall earn as wage
The entail of their blood and tears,
No shameful price for peaceful years
Shall ever part this heritage.

JOSEPH PLUNKETT.

The Irish Rapparees

RIGH SHEMUS he has gone to France, and left his crown

behind;

Ill luck be theirs, both day and night, put running in his mind

Lord Lucan followed after, with his Slashers brave and true, And now the doleful keen is raised-"What will poor Ireland do?

What must poor Ireland do?

Our luck," they say, "has gone to France-what can poor Ireland do?"

Oh! never fear for Ireland, for she has soldiers still;
For Rory's boys are in the wood, and Remy's on the hill;
And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these-
May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Rapparees
The fearless Rapparees!

The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish Rapparees!

Oh, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and colder than the clay! Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield's gone away!

It's little love you bear to us, for the sake of long ago

But hold your hand, for Ireland still can strike a deadly blow

Can strike a mortal blow

Och, dar-a-Críost 'tis she that still

Could strike a deadly blow.

The Master's bawn, the Master's seat, a surly bodagh fills; The Master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on the hills. But God be praised that round him throng, as thick as summer bees,

The swords that guarded Limerick wall-his faithful Rapparees!

His loving Rapparees!

Who dare say "no" to Rory Oge, with all his Rapparees?

Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he racked us long and

sore

God rest the faithful hearts he broke !-we'll never see them

more

But I'll go bail he'll break no more, while Truagh has gallows

trees;

For why?-he met one lonely night, the fearless Rapparees The angry Rapparees!

They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees.

Now, Sassenach and Cromweller, take heed of what I sayKeep down your black and angry looks, that scorn us night and day:

For there's a just and wrathful Judge, that every action sees, And He'll make strong, to right our wrong, the faithful Rapparees!

The fearless Rapparees!

The men that rode by Sarsfield's side, the roving Rapparees!

See Note Page 353.

CHARLES Gavan Duffy.

The Memory of the Dead

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?

Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
He's all a knave, or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like, you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few:

Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland, too;

All, all are gone; but still lives on
The fame of those who died;
All true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But, though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit's still at home.