136. The Memory of the Dead

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?

Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot’s fate,

Who hangs his head for shame?

He’s all a knave, or half a slave,

Who slights his country thus;

But a true man, like, you, man,

Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,

The faithful and the few:

Some lie far off beyond the wave,

Some sleep in Ireland, too;

All, all are gone; but still lives on

The fame of those who died;

All true men, like you, men,

Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands

Their weary hearts have laid,

And by the stranger’s heedless hands

Their lonely graves were made;

But, though their clay be far away

Beyond the Atlantic foam,

In true men, like you, men,

Their spirit’s still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth,

Among their own they rest,

And the same land that gave them birth

Has caught them to her breast;

And we will pray that from their clay

Full many a race may start

Of true men, like you, men,

To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days

To right their native land;

They kindled here a living blaze

That nothing shall withstand.

Alas! that Might can vanquish Right—

They fell and passed away;

But true men, like you, men,

Are plenty here to-day.

Then here’s to their memory—may it be

For us a guiding light,

To hear our strife for liberty,

And teach us to unite—

Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still,

Though sad as theirs your fate,

And true men, be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-Eight.

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