Coronach

Come, pipes, sound A crooning coronach round, Till hill and hollow glen and shadowed lake o'erflow With welling music of our woe. Beat, beat, ye muffled drums, ye drones and chanters wail, With heartbreak of the baffled, battle-broken Gael. The clay is deep on Ireland's breast: Her proud and bleeding heart is laid at last to rest . . To rest . . to rest!