Seamus MacGowan - Sligo Poets

Sligo Champion 22 November 1913
       Allen, Larkin, and O’Brien.
(Judiciously Murdered in Manchester, 23rd November 1867).

On a gibbet high uplifted,
   Three forms are swinging today,
The noble, the brave, and the gifted,
   Who flung their young lives away;
In the heart of an English city
   For the cause of their motherland,
While steeled to the promptings of pity,
   Look on them a ruffianly band.

They lived for the cause of old Ireland,
   They died for the patriot’s creed,
And their names shall live in our sireland,
   While an Irishman’s ready to bleed;
And a people shall seek inspiration
   At a spot where these gallant ones fell,
Till the rally of Ireland a Nation,
   Drives tyranny’s minions to hell.

They heard the voice of their sireland
   Crying out in her sorrow and woe,
And like true-hearted sons of old Ireland,
   They swore they would yet strike a blow
That would end all her suffering and sorrow,
   And avenge all the wrongs of the past,
That would bring her a glorious morrow
   Of peace and contentment at last.

On the honour of freemen they swore it,
   And until this accursed morn,
When death placed its seal on each forehead,
   They were true to the oath they had sworn;
They raised up the flag of a nation
   In that great English city alone,
And shook to its very foundation,
   The Sessanah Empire and throne.

And for this must three Irishmen perish,
   For this have three patriots died,
But the cause that we live for and cherish
   By their death have been sanctified;
And though the mills of God grind slowly,
   A day of reckoning shall come,
When Ireland shall wreck vengeance holy
   For this bloody martyrdom.

And while in our land dwells a freeman
   The might of a tyrant to scorn,
We’ll cherish the names of the three men
   Who died for old Ireland this morn;
And when freedom’s bright sun shines resplendent
   O’er mountain, and alley, and glen,
An Ireland redeemed, independent
   Shall honour their memory then.

                                                   J. MacG.

Sligo Champion 6 December 1913

 The Grave of James Stephens.

Tread lightly here, ’tis sacred ground,
  Our gallant chief lies here below,
While faithful spirits guard the mound
  Through winter’s storms and summer’s glow.
No more he’ll rouse a nation’s soul—
  He found us slaves and made us men—
For while the long years onward roll
  His voice shall ne’er be heard again.

There was a time in days of yore,
  When freedom’s fire lit hill and glen,
And Ireland’s hopes rose high once more
  To hear the tramp of marching men.
’Twas he, whose bones are mouldering here,
  Who kindled then the blessed flame
That still shall burn from year to year
  Till Erin’s son’s redeem her name.

And when the gallant strife was o’er,
  And scattered were his Fenian men,
He still looked forward as of yore,
  To see his country free again.
But not for him to yield the blade,
  Or hear the warrior’s martial tread,
Death came, and here his bones were laid
  With Ireland’s great heroic dead.

He sleeps in peace unbroken here,
  Beyond the city’s ceaseless hum,
But still his spirit’s waiting near
  To hear the roll of freedom’s drum.
And while the land in slavery lies
  The lonely vigil he will keep,
Till Irishmen once more arise
  And drive the foemen o’er the deep.

Sleep on brave chief, brave chief sleep on,
  Until the resurrection day,
Our serried files march towards the dawn,
  And soon we’ll bring our foes to bay.
The holy flame you lit of yore
  Shall yet dispel the lingering gloom,
’Twill light the land from shore to shore
  When England kneels to meet her doom.

                                            J. MacG.