Classic Poem

So, 'tis over! Lift the dead
Bear him to his place of rest,
Broken heart, and blighted head:
Lay the cross upon his breast.

There be many die too late;
Here is one that died too soon;
'Twas not fortune — it was fate
After him that cast her shoon.

Toll the church-bells slowly: toll!
God this day is wrath with Eire:
Seal the book, and fold the scroll;
Break the harp, and burst the wire.

Lords and priests, ye talked and talked
In Kilkenny's council hall;
But this man whose game ye baulked
Was the one man 'mong you all.

Twas not in the field he fell!
Sing his requiem, dark-stoled choir!
Let a nation sound his knell:
God this day is wrath with Eire!