From Hero Lays, published 1908.
I have seen all of the Ulstermen
From tide to tide:
There was never a one of them
Like Owen, who died.
And there will never be sons to them,
To run or to ride,
Like the boy who carried the guns to them
O’er the waters wide.
Ireland’s soldiers were sent to,
To form rank again.
My soul! they were well content to,
Having idle lain
Since the black day of Ballingarry, they’d
Thought it too long they tarried,
And for Mitchel, to exile carried,
Their hearts were in pain.
You have heard of O’Donovan Rossa
From nigh Skibbereen;
You have heard o’ the Hawk o’ the Hill-top,
If you have not seen;
You have read of the Reaper whose reaping
Was of grain half green:
Such were the men among us
In the days that have been.
Owen was only a boy then,
With hope in his eyes,
And fire of the fighting joy when
He was scarce at man’s size;
Lips that were coaxers to laughter,
Till, dumb with surprise,
All listened to words that came after,
For Owen was wise.
I could not tell you one half what
He planned and he did;
The tales that he told, and we laughed at,
The places he hid:
His journeys, his ventures, his dangers,
The friends that he found among strangers,
The foes turned to Freedom’s avengers,
Wild to do as he bid.
Right off to the coast-line of Connacht
’Twas he carried word
To the boys who were waiting upon it,
Of how Ireland was stirred.
His hand set a beacon alight
To burn on by day and by night.
Sudden his coming and flight—
He was gone like a bird.
Then near came the day to uprouse, and
’Tis peril that tries;
Of men we had many a thousand,
But how could they rise?
Soldiers?—With never a gun for them;
Something would have to be done for them.
Danger?—’twould only be fun for him:
He’d go in disguise.
How he went, and the place they were got from,
I never must tell,
Save to those who want more of the lot from
The same place as well.
Enough—they were brought, and if all in
Command had but done as he’d done,
Every Fenian from Mallow to Malin
Would have shouldered his gun.
God help us! The fates sure were spited
On the Sassenach side;
And Owen, who always united
Where envy’d divide,
Whom danger had lured like a lover
And Death like a bride:
Death won—and the grave-sods now cover
Our Owen who died.
His name?—Well, the books do not hold it
That tell of those days;
And ’twas often himself had not told it,
Having worked not for praise;
But some true hearts yet treasure the name of him,
And God’s self will measure the fame of him,
When Old Ireland will never hear shame of him,
On the Day of all days.