September
Monday 6 October 2008 photo 1/10
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Charles Stewart Parnell
27 juni 1846 - 6 oktober 1891
He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead.
O, Erin, mourn with grief an woe
for he lies dead whom the fell gang
of modern hypocrites laid low.
He lies slain by the coward hounds
he raised to glory from the mire;
and Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams
perish upon her monarch's pyre.
In palace, cabin or in cot
the Irish heart where'er it be
is bowed with woe - for he is gone
who would have wrought her destiny.
He would have had his Erin famed,
the green flag gloriously unfurled,
Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised
before the nations of the World.
He dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream!)
of Liberty: but as he strove
to clutch that idol, treachery
sundered him from the thing he loved.
Shame on the coward caitiff hands
that smote their lord or with a kiss
betrayed him to the rabble-rout
of fawning priests - no friends of his.
May everlasting shame consume
the memory of those who tried
to befoul and smear the exaulted name
of one who spurned them in his pride.
He fell as fall the mighty ones,
nobly undaunted to the last,
and death has now united him
with Erin's heroes of the past.
No sound of strife disturb his sleep!
Calmly he rests: no human pain
or high ambition spurs him now
the peaks of glory to attain.
They had their way: they laid him low.
But Erin, list, his spirit may
rise, like the Phoenix from the flames
when breaks the dawning of the day,
the day that brings us Freedom's reign.
And on that day may Erin well
pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy
one grief - the memory of Parnell.
27 juni 1846 - 6 oktober 1891
He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead.
O, Erin, mourn with grief an woe
for he lies dead whom the fell gang
of modern hypocrites laid low.
He lies slain by the coward hounds
he raised to glory from the mire;
and Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams
perish upon her monarch's pyre.
In palace, cabin or in cot
the Irish heart where'er it be
is bowed with woe - for he is gone
who would have wrought her destiny.
He would have had his Erin famed,
the green flag gloriously unfurled,
Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised
before the nations of the World.
He dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream!)
of Liberty: but as he strove
to clutch that idol, treachery
sundered him from the thing he loved.
Shame on the coward caitiff hands
that smote their lord or with a kiss
betrayed him to the rabble-rout
of fawning priests - no friends of his.
May everlasting shame consume
the memory of those who tried
to befoul and smear the exaulted name
of one who spurned them in his pride.
He fell as fall the mighty ones,
nobly undaunted to the last,
and death has now united him
with Erin's heroes of the past.
No sound of strife disturb his sleep!
Calmly he rests: no human pain
or high ambition spurs him now
the peaks of glory to attain.
They had their way: they laid him low.
But Erin, list, his spirit may
rise, like the Phoenix from the flames
when breaks the dawning of the day,
the day that brings us Freedom's reign.
And on that day may Erin well
pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy
one grief - the memory of Parnell.
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