A SCHOOLBOY PLAYS CUCHULAIN

‘ Way there! for one who hastens forth

To guard the Marches of the North,

Where Connacht's hosts with flame and brand

Hurl menace toward his native land,

And Macha's Curse on arm and will

Hangs dreadfully from hill to hill.

‘ Way there! Four valorous feet of height,

Twelve long, long years of age and fight,

He fronts without a thought of fear

Ten thousand with his wooden spear.

Soon shall he fling the charging field

Back on his puissant pasteboard shield,

And soon shall haughty Maeve bend down

A vassal to his tinsel crown.

‘ Way there! Who laughs has hardly heard

A hidden trumpet's secret word,

Or glimpsed through those poor arms he bears

The weapons that the spirit wears.

In that wild breast a thousand years

Rise up from ineffectual tears,

And kindle once again the flame

Of Freedom at a burning name.

What if for him no flag unfurled

Should shake red battle on the world;

On other fields, in other mood,

The ancient conflict is renewed,

And Michael and his warring clan

Tramp onward through the heart of man.

At Life's loud fires he shall anneal

A subtler blade than transient steel,

When Love, invincible in Faith,

Shall smile upon the face of Death,

And Will and Heart, as one, conspire

To dare the utmost of desire.

Then shall be, with his spirit's lance,

Unhorse cold Pride and Circumstance,

Shake Wrong's old strongholds to the ground,

And Right's victorious trumpet sound,

And light Earth's ramparts with the gleam

Of Ireland's unextinguished Dream

That burned in him who hastened forth

To guard the Marches of the North,

When Macha's Curse on arm and will

Hung dreadfully from hill to hill.