I.
DEAD, with his harness on him:
Rigid and cold and white,
Marking the place of the vanguard
Still in the ancient fight.

The climber dead on the hill-side,
Before the height is won:
The workman dead on the building,
Before the work is done!

O, for a tongue to utter
The words that should be said-
Of his worth that was silver, living,
That is gold and jasper, dead!

Dead-but the death was fitting:
His life, to the latest breath,
Was poured like wax on the chart of right,
And is sealed by the stamp of Death!

Dead-but the end was fitting:
First in the ranks he led;
And he marks the height of his nation's gain,
As he lies in his harness-dead!


II.
Weep for him, Ireland-mother lonely;
Weep for the son w'ho died for thee.
Wayward he was, but he loved thee only,
Loyal and fearless as son could be.
Weep for him, Ireland-sorrowing nation
Faithful to all who are true to thee:
Never a son in thy desolation
Had holier love for thy cause than he.

Sons of the Old Land, mark the story-
Mother and son in the final test:
Weeping she sits in her darkened glory,
Holding her dead to her stricken breast.
Only the dead on her knees are lying-
Ah, poor mother beneath the cross!
Strength is won by the constant trying,
Crowns are gemmed by the tears of loss!

Sons of the Old Land, mark the story-
Mother and son to each other true:
She called, and he answered, old and hoary,
And gave her his life as a man should do.
She may weep-but for us no weeping:
Tears are vain till the work is done;
Tears for her-but for us the keeping
Our hearts as true as her faithful son.