The Irish standard., 1896-06-06
ANON
Shane's Head.
Ey John Savage

BY John Savage.
Scene-Before Dublin Castle. Night. A
classman Of Shane O'Neill discovers his
chiefs head upon a pole.
Gods wrath upon the Saxon! may they
never know the pride.
OF dying on the battle field, their broken
spears beside:
When victory gilds the CORY shroud OF
every fallen brave, 81
O death no tales Of conquered clans can
whisper to his grave.
May every light from cross Of Christ that
saves the heart Of man,
Be hid In clouds of blood before 1t reached
the Saxon clan;
For sure, Oh God!-and you know all
whose thought for all suff1ced,
To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want
another Christ.
Is 1t thus, 0 Shane the naughty! Shane
the valiant that we meet?
Have my eyes been lit to heaven but to
guide me to defeat?
Have no chief. or you no clan, to give us
both defense,
Or must J., too, be statued here with thy
cold: tloquence?
Thy CHASTITY head grins scorn upon old
Dublin's castle tower, .
Thy shaggy hair is wind tOst, and thy
brow seems rough with power:
Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foul
est treachery stung, 49,
Look rage upon the world OF wrong, but
chain thy fiery tongue. d"
That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the
ghost of Columbkill
Whose warrior words fenced round with
spares the oaks of Derry Hill;
Whose reckless tones gave life and death
to vassals and to knaves,
And hunted hordes of Saxon Into holy
Irish graves
The Scotch rnarauders Whftened when his
war cry met their ears. -, -
And the dead bird, like a vengeance poised
above his stormy cheers,
Ay, Shane, across the laundering sea, out
chanting 1t your tongue,
Flung wild un-Saxon war whoop1ngs the
Saxon court among.
Just think. o Shane, the same moon shines
on LiffeS as on Foyle,
And lights the ruthless knaves on both,
our kinsmen to despoil. 49,.
And you the hope, voice, battle axe, the
shield Of us and ours,
A murdered. trunkless. binding sight
above these Dublin towers.
Thy face Is paler than the moon, my heart
49,. is paler still .-. 49,
My heart? had no heart-'twas yours,
twas yours to keep or kill.
And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief
your life your soul, your pride,
But they sought it in thy bosom, Shane
with proud ONeill it died.
You were turbulent and naughty. proud,
and keen as Spanish steel,
But who had right Of these. If not our
listers Chief-O'Nein?
Who reared aloft the Bloody Hand" until
1t paled the sun.
And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief
had never done.
He was turbulent" with traitors-he was
naughty with the foe 81
He was ''cruel' say We Saxon? Ay! he
dealt We blow for blow!
He was trough" and wild and who's.
not wild. to see his hearthstone
5 razed? ~, rss24
He was "merc'less as flre"-ah, We kindled
N hi1n,--he blazed!
He was proud" yes proud Of birthrtght
n and because he flung away
Your Saxon stars Of princedom, as the
rock does hooking spray,
He was wild, insane for vengeance,-ay!
~ and preached it until Tyrone
Was ruddy ready, wild too, with Fred
hands" 10 clutch their own.
The Scots are on the border, Shane-ye
saints he makes no breath
I remember when that. cry would wake
him up almost from death; 2,
Art truly dead and cold? o Chief! art
@ thou to Ulster lost? W.. ~ j,
Dost hear, dost hear? BY Randolph led,
the troops the Foyle have crossed
He's truly dead! he must be dead! nor Is
W. his ghost about fst
And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame
to such a shout:
The pale face droppeth northward- ali! his
s. soul must loom up there, f .s'
BY old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns,
as Tough Foyle, or Bann the Fair! &,
I'll speed me Ulsterwards. your ghost
must wander there, proud Shane,
In search of some O'Neill, through whom
49, to throb its hate again! ys5.