The Story Without End
Before my time my kindred were
As felons in their land,
Because they claimed the liberty
That freemen understand.
Ere I was born in Dublin town
Men’s hearts were still aflame;
They spoke of Allen and O’Brien,
And whispered Larkin’s name.
When I slept on my mother’s breast,
A little babe, and frail,
Young Duffy’s hearse went slowly by
He died in Milbank Jail.
When I could read, I spelt and knew
The lives of patriot men;
When I could write, my pencil traced—
‘A Nation Once Again.’
I learnt of those who often knew
The baton and the cell,
Who asked for right by peaceful means—
O’Connell to Parnell.
And once when thro’ the cheering streets
Some 'felon’ homeward came
I lit, amongst the gayer lights,
My candle’s tiny flame.
When I was but a little child
I ran by Kickham’s side;
I heard his bitter story told
In reverence and pride.
And when with years he passed away,
When life was young and fair,
I stood upon time’s crowded path,
And met O’Leary there.
I saw with pity and amaze
A craven party go,
Obedient to a Scotsman’s word,
For Parnell’s overthrow.
Before Kilmainham’s bloodstained walls
I stood all cold and still;
I lived through all the awful night
That shadowed Pentonville.
If thus o’er one life’s blotted page
Some neutral soul should bend,
He’ll read to-day—as yesterday—
The story without end.
