SAW you the wraith-light flicker and fail, Men of the glens, through the blinding sleet? Saw you a cloud o'er the grey sky sail, And wrap the day in its winding-sheet? Heard you the roar of the tempest's breath, Lashing the waves in its passionate scorning? Felt you the stillness as deep as death? 'Twas but the hour of our Eire's mourning. Heard you the woe of the caoiner's tale, Men of the glens, in your eerie shieling? Heard you the sound of the banshee's wail, You of the hills, o'er the upland stealing? Saw you the wan light grey and cold Break in the east, at the day-star's peeping? Saw you his glory of crimson and gold? 'Twas but the hour of our Eire's sleeping. Heard you a song by a siren sung, Men of the glens, through the woodland ringing, In the liquid tones of the Gaelic tongue, Sweet as the sunlit streamlet's singing? See you a myriad stern-brow'd men, The very earth 'neath their grand tread shaking, Seeking the singer through brake and fen? This, this is the hour of our Eire's waking. |