Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume VIII. National Spirit. 1904. | | | | I. Patriotism | | Turlough MacSweeney | | Anna MacManus (Ethna Carbery) (1866–1902) |
| | | A health to you, Piper, | |
| And your pipes silver-tongued, clear and sweet in their crooning! | |
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| Full of the music they gathered at morn | |
| On your high heather hills from the lark on the wing, | |
| From the blackbird at eve on the blossoming thorn, | 5 |
| From the little green linnet whose plaining they sing, | |
| And the joy and the hope in the heart of the Spring, | |
| O, Turlough MacSweeney! | |
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| Play us our Eire’s most sorrowful songs, | |
| As she sits by her reeds near the wash of the wave, | 10 |
| That the coldest may thrill at the count of her wrongs, | |
| That the sword may flash forth from the scabbard to save, | |
| And the wide land awake at the wrath of the brave, | |
| O, Turlough MacSweeney! | |
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| Play as the bards played in days long ago, | 15 |
| When O’Donnell, arrayed for the foray or feast, | |
| With your kinsmen from Bannat and Fannat and Doe, | |
| With piping and harping, and blessing of priest, | |
| Rode out in the blaze of the sun from the East, | |
| O, Turlough MacSweeney! | 20 |
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| Play as they played in that rapturous hour | |
| When the clans heard in gladness his young fiery call | |
| Who burst from the gloom of the Sassenach tower, | |
| And sped to the welcome in dear Donegal, | |
| Then on to his hailing as chieftain of all— | 25 |
| O, Turlough MacSweeney! | |
| |
| Play as they played, when, a trumpet of war, | |
| His voice for the rally, pealed up to the blue, | |
| And the kerns from the hills and the glens and the scaur | |
| Marched after the banner of conquering Hugh— | 30 |
| Led into the fray by a piper like you, | |
| O, Turlough MacSweeney! | |
| |
| And surely no note of such music shall fail, | |
| Wherever the speech of our Eire is heard, | |
| To foster the hope of the passionate Gael, | 35 |
| To fan the old hatred, relentless when stirred, | |
| To strengthen our souls for the strife to be dared, | |
| O, Turlough MacSweeney! | |
| |
| May your pipes, silver-tongued, clear and sweet in their crooning, | |
| Keep the magic they captured at dawning and even | 40 |
| From the blackbird at home, and the lark on its journey, | |
| From the thrush on its spray, and the little green linnet. | |
| A health to you, Piper! | | | | |
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