Just as they fall they are buried so—
Oh, no! oh, no!
No! on an Irish green hill-side,
On an opening lawn—but not too wide;
For I love the drip of the wetted trees—
On me blow no gales, but a gentle breeze,
To freshen the turf: put no tombstone there,
But green sods deck'd with daisies fair.
Nor sods too deep: but so that the dew,
The matted grass-roots may trickle through—
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
"He serv'd his country and lov'd his kind."
Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,
If one were sure to be buried so.
GATHERING CHAUNT
OF THE ULSTER SEPTS, IN THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH.
The sword of the Saxon is red on our hills,
And blood has empurpled the tide of our rills;
O'Hanlon, unfurl your banner of green,
And high let the sun-burst of Erin be seen.
O'Donnell, come down from your dark Donegal,
And drive back the Saxon, and scatter the Scaul;
Maguire, come forth with the men of your might,
And red let your falchion be seen through the fight.
MacMahon, let victory gleam from your crest,
O'Reilly, come forth, with your boldest and best;
O'Hagan, M'Donnell, and Derry's bright star,
Advance to the hot crimson banquet of war.
