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Padraic Colum - King Cahill`s Farewell To The Rye Field
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WRITTEN TO THE LONDONDERRY AIR

"Tira autumn sun your shadow`s flung, my Cahill,
Upon the field where now your reapmg`s done,
Lo, there! And lo! Your reaper`s wreath of rushes
Is on your forehead like a kingly crown.

"And I have come to name you King of Connacht,
And bid you where O`Connor`s muster grows:
No shadow-king, but one to front the Norman,
And rear the standard that all Eire knows."

"Farewell," he said, "farewell the field I`ve sickled,
Farewell the youths whose backs were bent with mine,
Farewell the maids whose singing now comes to me
`O Brighid, bless our fields, our roofs, our kine!`"

"No Norman keep shall frown above your labors,
No pale they`ll make to hold our Irish deer;
A true-born scion of Connacht`s kings, I go now:
This brand, my father`s sword, shall lead your axe,
your spear."
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