Classic Poem

I speak with a proud tongue of the people who were
And the people who are,
The worthy of Ardara, the Rosses and Inish-keel,
My kindred —
The people of the hills and the dark-haired passes
My neighbours on the lift of the brae,
In the lap of the valley.

To them Slainthe!

I speak of the old men,
The wrinkle-rutted,
Who dodder about foot-weary —
For their day is as the day that has been and is no more —
Who warm their feet by the fire,
And recall memories of the times that are gone:
Who kneel in the lamplight and pray
For the peace that has been theirs —
And who beat one dry-veined hand against another
Even in the sun —
For the coldness of death is on them.

I speak of the old women
Who danced to yesterday's fiddle
And dance no longer.
They sit in a quiet place and dream
And see visions
Of what is to come,
Of their issue,
Which has blossomed to manhood and womanhood —
And seeing thus
They are happy
For the day that was leaves no regrets,
And peace is theirs
And perfection.

I speak of the strong men
Who shoulder their burdens in the hot day,
Who stand in the market-place
And bargain in loud voices,
Showing their stock to the world.
Straight the glance of their eyes —
Broad-shouldered,
Supple.
Under their feet the holms blossom,
The harvest yields.
And their path is of prosperity.

I speak of the women,
Strong-hipped, full-bosomed,
Who drive the cattle to graze at dawn.
Who milk the cows at dusk.
Grace in their homes,
And in the crowded ways
Modest and seemly —
Mothers of children!

I speak of the children
Of the many townlands,
Blossoms of the Bogland,
Flowers of the Valley,
Who know not yesterday, nor to-morrow,
And are happy,
The pride of those who have begot them.
And thus it is,
Ever and always,
In Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel —
Here, as elsewhere,
The Weak, the Strong, and the Blossoming —
And thus my kindred.

To them Slainthe.