ON THE RAMPARTS OF LIMERICK.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume II, Issue 93, 6 February 1875, Page 13

ON THE RAMPARTS OF LIMERICK.

BY JOHN F. O'DONNELL. . Cheerily rings the boatman's song Across the dark-brown water ; His mast is slant, his sail is strong, His hold is red with slaughter — With beeves that cropped the fields of Glynn, And sheep that pricked their meadows, Until the sun-set cry trooped in The cattle from the shadows. He holds the foam-washed tiller loose, And hums a country ditty ; For, under clouds of gold, turned puce, Gleam harbor, mole, and city. O town of manhood, maidenhood, By thee the Shannon flashes — There Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. St. Mary's, in the evening air, Springs up austere and olden ; Two sides its steeple gray and bare, Two sides with sunset golden. The bells roll out, the bells roll back, The lusty knaves are Binging ; Deep in the chancel, red and black, The white-robed boys are singing. The sexton loiters by the gate With eyes more blue than hyssop, A black-green skull-cap on his pate, And all his mouth a gossip. This is the town beside the flood— The'walls the Shannon washes ; Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. The streets are quaint, red-bricked, antique, The topmost story curving ; With, here and there, a slated leak, Through which the light falls swerving. The angry sudden light falls down On path and middle parquet, On shapes, weird as the ancient town. And faces fresh for market. They shout, they chatter, disappear, Like imps that shake the valance At midnight, when the clock ticks queer, And time has lost its balance. This is the town beside the flood Which past its bastion dashes ; Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. Oh, how they talk, brown country folk, Their chatter many-mooded, With eyes that laugh for equivoque, And heads in kerchiefs hooded ! Such jests, such jokes, such plastic niirth But Heine could determine — The portents of the latest birth, The point of Sunday's sermon ; The late rains, the previous drouth, How oats were growing stunted ; How keels fetched higher prices, South, And Captain Watson hunted. This is the town beside the flood, Whose waves with memories flashes ; Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. How thick with life the Irish-towu, Dear gray and battered portress ; That laid all save her honor down, To save the fire-ringed fortress. Here Sarsfield stood, here lowered the flag, That symbolised the people — A riddled rag, a bloody rag, Plucked from St. Mary's steeple. Thick are the walls the women b'ned, With courage worthy Roman, When armed with hate sublime, if blind, They scourged the headlong foeman. This is the town beside the flood, That round its ramparts flashes ; Wheve Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. This part is mine : to live divorced Where foul November gathers ; With other sons or thine dispersed, Brave city of my fathers. To gaze on rivers not mine own, And nurse a wasting longing j Where Babylon, with trumpets blowing, South, north, east, west, comes thronging 1 . To hear distinctly, if afar, The voices of thy people — To hear through crepitating air, The sweet bells of thy steeple.

To love the town, the hill, the wood, The Shannon's stormful flashes ; Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, " To blossom into ashes.