IRELAND TO-DAY by SHANE LESLIE

SHE moves most sad and beautiful
Amid her hills of green;
She weeps the brave, the dutiful,
Who owned her once for queen.

Of all her fighting men bereft,
Of bard and feaster's throng,
She keepeth sweet the love they left,
The memory of their song.

Ah! well the clans in distant time,
Who met a glorious doom;
And well the clans whom foreign clime
Hath laid in purple tomb:

For now they seek another's fame,
And some have learnt to hate;
And some who bear the ancient name
Have passed the traitor's gate.

The poor alone, the peasant-born,
In ardour lawless set,
Is staunch amid his fellows' scorn,
And finds her flawless yet.

Beside her moves the dreamers' band,
Their hearts a-flaming fast;
For old-world songs their dreams have fanned
With whispers from the past.

Around her many lovers sigh,
The courtiers of her woe,
And now her rainbow heart climbs high,
And now it melteth low.

And now she speaks her holy tongue,
And to the Gaelic heard
A thousand hearts have echoed strong,
And distant lands are stirred.

She moves most sad and beautiful
Amid her hills of green;
She seeks the brave, the dutiful,
To own her yet as queen.

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