IN sweet Irish clay may I lie Heart clasped to my race, O brothers and sisters of mine, Give me of your space! For mine was the life that you lived, The fight that you fought, And bright in the gloom of mine own Were deeds you had wrought. So let the dear dust of your dead Drift over my face, And this be the dirge that you sing And song that you trace. A pebble is thrown to the beach From whence it was brought, A leaf has dropped weary for rest To those it had sought. |