A Request
Give me but six-foot-three (one inch to spare)
Of Irish earth, and dig it anywhere;
And for my poor soul say an Irish prayer
- Above the spot.
Let it be hill where cloud and mountain meet,
Or vale where grows the tufted meadowsweet,
Or "boreen" trod by peasants' shoeless feet:
- It matters not.
I loved them all--the vale, the hill,
The moaning sea, the water-lillied rill,
The yellow gorse, the lake-shore lone and still,
- The wild birds' song.
But more than hill or valley, bird or moor,
More than the green fields of the river Suir,
I loved those hapless ones, the Irish poor,
- All my life long.
Little I did for them in outward deed,
And yet be unto them of praise the meed
For the stiff fight I waged 'gainst lust and greed.
- I learned it there,
So give me Irish grave, 'mid Irish air,
With Irish grass above it-anywhere;
And let some Irish peasant say a prayer
- For my soul's care
