Child of Loch Ramor, gently seaward stealing,
In thy placid depths hast thou no feeling
Of the stormy gusts of other days?
Does thy heart, oh, gentle nun-faced river,
Passing Schomberg's obelisk, not quiver,
While the shadow on thy bosom weighs?
Thou hast heard the sounds of martial clangour,
Seen fraternal forces clash in anger,
In thy Sabbath valley, River Boyne!
Here have ancient Ulster's hardy forces
Dressed their ranks and fed their travelled horses,
Tara's hosting as thy rode to join.
Forgettest thou that silent Summer morning,
When William's bugles sounded sudden warning,
And James's answered, chivalrously clear!
When rank to rank gave the death-signal duly,
And volley answered volley quick and truly,
And shouted mandates met the eager ear?
The thrush and linnet fled beyond the mountains,
The fish in Inver Colpa sought their fountains,
The unchased deer scampered through Tredagh's [1] gates;
St. Mary's bells in their high places trembled,
And made a mournful music which resembled
A hopeless prayer to the unpitying Fates.
Ah! well for Ireland had the battle ended
When James forsook what William well defended,
Crown, friends, and kingly cause;
Well, if the pace thy bosom did recover
Had brethed its benediction broadly over
Our race, and rites, and laws.
Not in thy depths, not in thy fount, Loch Ramor!
Were brewed the bitter strife and cruel clamour
Our wisest long have mourned;
Foul Faction falsely made thy gentle current
To Christian ears a stream and name abhorrent,
And all thy waters into poison turn'd.
But, as of old God's Prophet sweetened Mara,
Even so, blue bound of Ulster and of Tara,
Thy waters to our Exodus give life;
Thrice holy hands thy lineal foes have wedded,
And healing olives in thy breast embedded,
And banished far the littleness of strife.
Before thee have made a solemn Foedus,
And for Chief Witness called on Him who made us,
Quenching before His eyes the brands of hate;
Our pact is made, for brotherhood and union,
For equal laws to class and to communion--
Our wounds to staunch--our land to liberate.
Our trust in not in musket or in sabre--
Our faith is in the fruitfulness of labour,
The soul-stirred, willing soil;
In Homes and granaries by justice guarded,
In fields from blighting winds and agents warded,
In franchised skill and manumitted toil.
Grant us, O God, the soil, and sun, and seasons!
Avert Despair, the worst of moral treasons,
Make vaunting words be vile.
Grant us, we pray, but wisdom, peace, and patience,
And we will yet re-lift among the nations
Our fair and fallen, but unforsaken Isle.
The above published source is public domain under the terms of
Title 17, United States Code, Section 304(b).
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publication outside of the United States.
Published in 1998 by Dennis McCarthy
No Rights Reserved! I release this file to the public domain.
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