Alice Milligan, (1865-1953)
The first storm of winter blew high, blew high,|
Red leaves were scattering to a gloomy sky;
Rain clouds were lowering oer the plains of Kildare,
When from Dublin, southward, the mourners came there.
2. "In the spring," they whispered, "Lord Edward bled,
3. "Though Fitzgerald died, sure we fought them still,
4. "Twice," we thought, "his appealing lips|
Brought forth her armies and battleships,
And the storms of God shall not always stay
Englands doom, as in Bantry Bay.
5. "And oh," we said to the hopeless ones,
6. He came was beaten we bear him here
7. "Hush," one said, oer the new-set sod,|
"Hope shall endure with our faith in God,
And God shall only forsake us when
This grave is forgotten by Irishmen."
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