They left the tawny upland fields of Clare;
They said goodbye to the fearful welling eye ;
Of aged parents, at Milltown ’s windy station,
The trembling horny -handed sons of toil
Bless them , and the mother slips her rosary beads,
Into her only son’s pocket ,
The father turns his wizened quivering face into the bracing wind.
God Bless you son.
Say an odd prayer - their son with laughing eyes
Hiding a noble sadness just for them - he smiles;
- I’ll be home for Christmas.- waves as he goes,
And both bless themselves =Please God
They went to fight
For the liberty of small nations;
Their own ;
Oppressed by the British
For a thousand years.
The fell in Flanders fields;
Without a prayer in the dying ear,
Without soft comfort from comrade to hear
Or even a hasty blessing from the Chaplin
As the chill of death drew near.
And a painful spasm in a mothers womb;
Many miles away n Clare ; harkens her soul
And she kneels in the winter muddied soil ;
Only a mother could explain what she fears.
They fell in Flanders on their first day
Of adventure ; with poppies all around.
The lonely flower that waited till the other blooms had faded.
And thrived in upturned ditches everywhere.
They fell , as generals in secure remote redoubts.
Expressed a vexed exasperation ;
As only generals can; while others
Played another rubber of bridge and expressed
Mere mild disappointment
As if it were a bad opening day of.
The Grouse Season.
They fell for that illusion;
The noble struggle for freedom of small nations
And the delivery of Home Rule.
And other promises and men were each broken
And also - fell that last wretched day.
They fell as a Rising was hatched
And that bloody Insurrection
After a Bloody Easter week in 1916.
But the suppression of that rising
Also fell ; fell apart ,
When the British shot the leaders in Kilmainham gaol.
And another terrible beauty is borne
As the elusive poet Yeats would later say.
And the tawny upland fields of Clare ;
Lie fallow and unploughed ,
The few crooked rows now
Open graves of broken parents prayers
But with small comfort ;
The daffodils , they bloom in Spring
Along the path he played .
And sometimes if you listen near
His playful .merry voice you’ll hear .
But daffodils are bright and full of promise;
Of hope of the new dawned spring
And poppies are a lurid red .;
And bloom alone ,unhurried
When all other flowers do fade.
And only grow , to be worn
On an elegant lapel black lapel from Saville Row,
By British politicians for their glorious dead.
Now till death takes them ,
The trembling parent on bended knee
Prays every Sunday in their Sunday best.
The father , with banked up bitter tears,
And the mother clutching the rosary y beads.
That they’d recovered from his body.
From a lonely Flanders field
All that was left of his fond fond ,face;
That, and the telegram from HMG - War Office;
‘’Regret to infer you.
Gnr D. Mc Bride killed in action
In Belgium. April 25. 1915’’
Lord Kitchener expresses his sympathies.’’
They fell in fields of mud
They fell and few cried
They fell where they never should,
They fell and the daffodil she bloomed ,
Again the day they died
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