'Ninety-Eight

A Centenary Ode, 1898
Still forms, grey dust, black stones in Dublin city,

       A grave in green kildare,

And many a grassy mound that moves our pity

       O’er erin everywhere;

 

Cave hill above the lagan’s noises rearing

       Her shaggy head in pride;

Lone ednavady’s brow and antrim staring

       Across lough neagh’s rough tide;

 

Killala still her weary watch maintaining

       Beside the ocean’s boom,

And castlebar in faithful guard remaining

       Around the frenchmen’s tomb.

 

Ross, wexford, gorey, oulart, tubberneering,

       And many a wicklow glen

They knew the dauntless souls and hearts unfearing

       Of dwyer and all his men –--

 

These, through a hundred years of gloom and doubting

       Speak trumpet-toned today,

Above the cry of creed and faction’s shouting

       To tread the olden way.

 

These, in the hearts of all the true men, waken

       The olden fires anew;

These tell of hope unquenched and faith unshaken,

       Of something still to do.

 

They bring us visions, full of tears and sorrow,

       Of homes and hearts left lone;

Of eyes grown dim with watching for a morrow

       Of joy that never shown.

 

But, too, they whisper notes of preparation

       And strength beyond the seas,

Of hope outliving night and desolation

       Through all the centuries.

 

Then to the staff-head let our flag ascending,

       Our fires on every hill

Tell to the nations of the earth attending

       We wage the battle still –--

 

Tell to the nations, though the grass is o’er them,

       For many a weary year,

Our fathers’ souls still thrill the land that bore them,

       Their spirit still is there.

 

And by their graves we swear this year of story

       To battle side by side,

Till freedom crowns with immemorial glory

       The cause for which they died.

 

William Rooney