By Lorcán Murray
Let cold winds howl
And soft rain speak
Oft mutters quiet
Dare not repeat
To quest for such
A glory’s peak
To fly once more
Instead of sleep
For all our parts combined
Bear fruits as succulent in mind
As Greek ambrosia, or Roman summer wine.
So beg from our groggy confusion define
Where an acceptable space to find,
Or flying body toe a line?
So in sinking pirates we have freed
Our own armada to sail the seas
In daring crest we conceive
To ride the wave of opportunity.
Is it a quick mercy to lay down
Forever the hopes of such upstart youths,
Whose crime but a smile in the way
Of a Limerick armies marching boots?
Well our spirits warmed upon their pyre
Our progress played to snapping bones,
A future gazed back in the flames
Of precise throws and tightening zones.
The Old Enemy
Fire forges the finest steel
That time tempered to its will
So hardened it is drawn to feel
The strength amidst a Maynooth chill.
But weapons do not a warrior make
Rather muscle, nerve and sinew
A unity that will not shake
And faith in time to see things through.
No greater sound to the divine
Than heretic cry or traitor sneer,
Still better yet when friends combine
To lay to rest an ancient fear.
And so we turn to face the final test,
Which in glory reach and history rest.
A Tragic End
The Promised Land would seem absent,
Without the guards at the gate
But heroes do not destiny lament
Nor do we bow in the face of fate
We are nothing if not insolent
Even on the edge of a growing gulf.
They had pride, skill, experience,
And a silver bullet to kill the wolf.
With bitter defeat
We padded home
The day deplete
We still condone
The daring reach
Over cowards moan
For while dogs sleep
They dream in bone.