(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)

("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,

It's with O'Leary in the grave.")

                 --William Butler Yeats.

"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,

Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn

A hue so radiantly brave?

There was a rain of blood that day,

Red rain in gay blue April weather.

It blessed the earth till it gave birth

To valour thick as blooms of heather.

Romantic Ireland never dies!

O'Leary lies in fertile ground,

And songs and spears throughout the years

Rise up where patriot graves are found.

Immortal patriots newly dead

And ye that bled in bygone years,

What banners rise before your eyes?

What is the tune that greets your ears?

The young Republic's banners smile

For many a mile where troops convene.

O'Connell street is loudly sweet

With strains of Wearing of the Green.

The soil of Ireland throbs and glows

With life that knows the hour is here

To strike again like Irishmen

For that which Irishmen hold dear.

Lord Edward leaves his resting place

And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce.

See Emmet leap from troubled sleep

To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!

There is no rope can strangle song

And not for long death takes his toll.

No prison bars can dim the stars

Nor quicklime eat the living soul.

Romantic Ireland is not old.

For years untold her youth shall shine.

Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread,

The blood of martyrs is her wine.