WILLIAM O'KELLY

By James Stephens

The Protecting Tree

Of the men of the land of Fal!

What aileth thee,

And why is it that all

About thee grieves?

Alas, O Tree of the Leaves!

Here is thy rhyme:

Thy bloom is lightened;

And if thy fruit be withered

Thy root hath not tightened

At the same time.

Not since the Gael was sold

At Aughrim. Not since to cold,

Dull death went Owen Roe;

Not since the drowning of Clann Adam in the days of Noe

Brought men to hush,

Has such a tale of woe come to us

In such a rush.

The true flower of the blood of the place is fallen:

The true clean-wheat of the Gael is reaped.

Destruction be upon Death,

For he has come and taken from our tree

The topmost blackberry!