Shaun's Head

God's wrath upon the Saxon ! may they never know the pride
Of dying on the battle-field, their broken spear beside ;
When victory gilds the gory shroud of every fallen brave,
Or death no tales of conquered clans can whisper to his grave.
May every light from Cross of Christ, that saves the heart of man,
Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the Saxon clan ;
For sure, O God ! — and You know all, whose thought for all sufficed —
To expiate these Saxon sins they'd want another Christ.

Is it thus, O Shaun the haughty ! Shaun the valiant ! that we meet —
Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide me to defeat ?
Have I no chief or you no clan, to give us both defence,
Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold eloquence ?

Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin's Castle tower,
Thy shaggy hair is wind-tossed, and thy brow seems rough with power ;
Thy wrathful lips like sentinels, by foulest treachery, stung,
Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery tongue.

That tongue, whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of Columbkill,
Whose warrior words fenced round with spears the oaks of Derry Hill :
Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves,
And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish graves.
The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met their ears,
And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his stormy cheers ;
Ay, Shaun, across the thundering sea, out-chanting it, your tongue
Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the Saxon Court among.

Just think, O Shaun ! the same moon shines on Liffey as on Foyle,
And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsmen to despoil ;
And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the shield of us and ours,
A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above these Dublin towers.
Thy face is paler than the moon ; my heart is paler still—
My heart ? I had no heart — 'twas yours — 'twas yours ! to keep or kill.
And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief — your life, your soul,
your pride ;
But they sought it in thy bosom, Shaun— with proud O'Neill it died.
You were turbulent and haughty, proud, and keen as
Spanish steel —
But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's Chief,
O'Neill,
Who reared aloft the Bloody Hand until it paled the sun,
And shed such glory on Tyrone as chief had never done?

He was " turbulent " with traitors ; he was " haughty " with the foe ;
He was " cruel," say ye, Saxons ! Ay ! he dealt ye blow for blow !
He was "rough" and "wild" — and who's not wild to see his hearth-stone razed ?
He was "merciless as fire" — ah, ye kindled him — he blazed !
He was "proud" — yes, proud of birthright, and because he flung away
Your Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock does mocking spray,
He was wild, insane for vengeance — ay ! and preached it till Tyrone
Was ruddy, ready, wild, too, with "Red Hands," to clutch their own.

" The Scots are on the border, Shaun ! " Ye Saints, he makes no breath :
I remember when that cry would wake him up almost from death.
Art truly dead and cold? O Chief! art thou to Ulster lost?
" Dost hear, dost hear ? By Randolph led, the troops the
Foyle have crossed ! "
He's truly dead ! he must be dead ! nor is his ghost about —
And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a shout :
The pale face droopeth northward — ah ! his soul must loom up there,
By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough Foyle, or Bann the Fair !
I'll speed me Ulster-wards — your ghost must wander there,
proud Shane,
In search of some O'Neill, through whom to throb its hate again.