dedalus Posted September 17, 2013 Share Posted September 17, 2013 This land remains so full of childhood memories, its mansions and cobblestone lanes, the sweeping grandeur of its weeping decrepitude; the barefoot children roam outside rundown tenements among the poor, who are really starving. Here in this green and ample land, adrift in anger and sad songs, I sit below the murmuring weir and turn my face from the inconsequence of dessicated regal antecedents, now just a joke, a name, a nothing at all. What is this country, anyway, but secretive bogs, ancient mountains, sticky sod under grassy fields? This is all we have ever been, a far and improbable island, prey to a dangerous neighbour. I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. The songs of the children are no longer innocent. All of our royal kings, Niall of the Nine Hostages, Brian Ború, Ruari O Connor, and all of the glad mixed glories of the aristocratic Celtic Age are dead and gone: our leaders fled, else buried like dogs. The Sassenach sailed in and spread themselves. Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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