|Then Father Murphy,
from old Kilcormack,
Spurred up the rocks with a warning cry,
"Arm, Arm!" he cried, "for Ive come to lead you,
For Irelands freedom well fight or die."
Full many a Hessian lay in his gore,
Ah, Father Murphy, had aid come over
The green flag floated from shore to shore!
|He led us on
gainst the coming soldiers,
And the cowardly Yeomen we put to flight;
Twas at the Harrow the boys of Wexford
Showed Bookeys regiment how men could fight.
|At Vinegar Hill,
oer the pleasant Slaney,
Our heroes vainly stood back to back,
And the Yeos at Tullow took Father Murphy
And burned his body upon the rack.
|Look out for
hirelings, King George of England,
Search every kingdom where breathes a slave.
For Father Murphy from the County Wexford
Sweeps oer the land like a mighty wave
|God grant you
glory, brave Father Murphy,
And open heaven to all your men;
The cause that called you may call to-morrow
In another fight for the Green again.
Bás an Chroipí
|Sinte ar thaobh an
Chonaic me Croipi bocht.
Bhi an drucht go trom ar a eadan,
Bhi pilear trina ucht.
Bhi se I bhfad ona chairde,
I bhfad ona theach s a mhnaoi,
Agus e ina aonar fagtha
Ar an bhfear fuar, fliuch, na lui.
Sa bhothainin sleibhe
Bhi bean ag gol s ag caoi,
Ag caoineadh ar son a ceile
Nach dtiocfadh ar ais a choiach.
"A mhathair, na bi ag caoineadh,
Na bi ag briseadh do chroi,
Ni fada go bhfillfidh Daidi.
Suigh sios agus lig do scith.
a mhic ni fheadaim.
Ta cnapan mor I mucht.
Bfheidir gur paiste gan athair
Tu fein, a mhic, anocht".
"A mhathair, ta Dia cinealta.
Ni ligfidh se dochar do.
Na habair, na habhair, a mhathair
Na habair nach bhfuil se beo".
Ach dfhan se san ait nar thit se
agus pilear trina ucht.
Nach silfidh Eire aon deoirin
Ar son an saighdiur bhoicht?
Requiem for the Croppies
|The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp -
We moved quick and sudden in our own country
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people, hardly marching - on the hike -
We found new tactics happening each day:
Wed cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until, on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August the barley grew up out of the grave.
Seamus Heaney, New Selected Poems 1966 - 1987.
U.K.: Faber & Faber, 1990