Where Layde’s old tombstones tell the tale
Of time before we felt the flail
Of England’s “for your own good” yoke
You must have stood on many a morn
And blessed the day when you were born
In May’s bright sunshine and turf-smoke.
As the dog clambered on your knee
You looked at Scotland past the sea
Where flew the exiled childer Lir.
Framed by hedges thick with whin
The land of our oppressor-kin
Unlike the English, known and near.
That vantage showed the road you trod
Family, faith, peace with the Prod
Made sense. The Troubles passed you by
Where still despite the passing time
Catholic, Gaelic, Scots, all rhyme
Hemmed in by Plateau, waves, and sky.
Sell-out, traitor, and Castle Taig:
Ulster speech must eschew the vague
Not least for those that breach the ditch
That makes us prisoners of our worst.
There is a price for those who first
Trade victory for an even pitch.
As a fig leaf you were courted.
Brave kenosis, worse, was thwarted —
Thucydides proved right once more.
To all but those who loved you best
Obscure to memory you must rest
Vague footnote in historian’s lore.
Gesture met but with ill justice
Still you were correct to trust as
Morgair’s school taught, in the Lord.
For now you rest with Him and show
Your glory from within below
The angels’ “Holy, Holy” chord.
