Dirge of Rory O'More

Up the sea-saddened valley at evening's decline,
A heifer walks lowing — the silk of the kine ;
From the deep to the mountains she roams, and again
From the mountain's green urn to the purple-rimmed main.

What seek'st thou, sad mother? Thine own is not thine !
He dropped from the headland — he sank in the brine !
'Twas a dream ! but in dreams at thy foot did he follow
Through the meadow-sweet on by the marish and mallow !

Was he thine ? Have they slain him ? Thou seek'st him not knowing
Thyself, too, art theirs — thy sweet breath and sad lowing !
Thy gold horn is theirs ; thy dark eye and thy silk,
And that which torments thee, thy milk is their milk !

'Twas no dream, Mother Land ! 'Twas no dream, Innisfail !
Hope dreams, but grief dreams not — the grief of the Gael !
From Leix and Ikerrin to Donegal's shore,
Rolls the dirge of thy last and thy bravest — O'More !