TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE
by Ellen O'Leary
I sit beside my darling's grave
Who in the prison died,
And though my tears fall thick and fast
I think of him with pride;
Ay, softly fall my tears like dew
For one to God and Ireland true.
"I love my God o'er all," he said,
"And then I love my land,
And next I love my Lily sweet
Who pledged me her white hand;
To each, to all, I'm ever true,
To God, to Ireland, and to you."
No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed,
Or softly raised his head;
He fell asleep and woke in heaven
Ere I knew he was dead;
Yet why should I my darling rue?
He was to God and Ireland true.
Oh, 'tis a glorious memory;
I'm prouder than a queen
To sit beside my hero's grave
And think on what has been:
And oh, my darling, I am true
To God, to Ireland, and to you!
Patrick Sheehan
by Charles Joseph Kickham
My name is Patrick Sheehan,
My years are thirty-four;
Tipperary is my native place,
Not far from Galtymore:
I came of honest parents,
But now they’re lying low;
And many a pleasant day I spent
In the Glen of Aherlow.
My father died; I closed his eyes
Outside our cabin door;
The landlord and the sheriff, too,
Were there the day before;
And then my loving mother,
And sisters three also,
Were forced to go with broken hearts
From the Glen of Aherlow.
For three long months, in search of work,
I wandered far and near;
I went then to the poor-house,
For to see my mother dear;
The news I heard nigh broke my heart;
But still, in all my woe,
I blessed the friends who made their graves
In the Glen of Aherlow.
Bereft of home and kith and kin,
With plenty all around,
I starved within my cabin,
And slept upon the ground;
But cruel as my lot was,
I ne’er did hardship know
Till I joined the English Army,
Far away from Aherlow.
"Rouse up there," says the Corporal,
"You lazy Irish hound;
Why don’t you hear, you sleepy dog,
The call to arms sound ?"
Alas, I had been dreaming
Of days long, long ago;
I woke before Sebastopol,
And not in Aherlow.
I groped to find my musket—
How dark I thought the night!
O blessed God, it was not dark,
It was the broad daylight!
And when I found that I was blind,
My tears began to flow;
I longed for even a pauper’s grave
In the Glen of Aherlow.
O Blessed Virgin Mary,
Mine is a mournful tale;
A poor blind prisoner here I am,
In Dublin’s dreary gaol;
Struck blind within the trenches,
Where I never feared the foe;
And now I’ll never see again
My own sweet Aherlow!
A poor neglected mendicant,
I wandered through the street;
My nine months’ pension now being out,
I beg from all I meet:
As I joined my country’s tyrants,
My face I’ll never show
Among the kind old neighbours
In the Glen of Aherlow.
Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen,
Take heed of what I say;
For if you join the English ranks,
You’ll surely rue the day;
And whenever you are tempted
A soldiering to go,
Remember poor blind Sheehan
Of the Glen of Aherlow.
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These poems are in the public domain. They were included in the 1895 compilation A Book of Irish Verse, edited by William Butler Yeats.