Classic Poem

He is dead! but we do not weep.
We shall keep his memory green,
But our thoughts shall be thoughts of pride
That such men as he have been.

When the Wolf was out on the hills,
His cruel fangs red with gore —
With the blood of the noble dead —
His cruel heart wild for more.

When those who would stay his march
Slept under the unblest clay,
Or pined in the prison cell,
Shut out from the light of day.

When the flock was faced with death,
And with horrors no tongue could tell —
Faced with the pitiless will
Of the Wolf that sprang from hell.

Our Shepherd rose in his wrath
And rallied the flock once more;
Stood straight in the path of the Wolf
That was hungry for Irish gore.

He flung to a listening world
The war-cry of Ireland's fight,
And showed that her holy dead
Had battled for Truth and Right.

O, Martyrs for Ireland's weal,
In the Land where all is true,
Give him a welcome Home,
He had love for yours and you.

MacPiarais! give him your hand,
He has followed the path you trod;
MacDiarmada! lead him tonight
To his place in the Fold of God.

When Ireland rallied her soldiers
You sprang to her side,
You were brave in the dark hour of danger
And bravely you died.
God rest you 'mong all who have fallen
For Freedom and Right,
God guide us to follow your footsteps
To the end of the fight.