The young alone are fair, the old are great,
The young have fire made visible to sight;
Young eyes have fire, the old alone have light,—
The light which all earth's weary ones await,
The light that waxes as the day grows late.
Deem not she thinks that now 'tis sunset quite,
That a pathetic majesty of night
Falls grey upon the grandeur of her state.
She thinks of the young valours who went down,
Marching across the battle-zone of fire
In the red baptism of war's martyrdom,
Her glorious Irish soldiers. Her desire
Is quick to see the green land of their home,
And fill the nations with their high renown.
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