Plorans Ploravit. 
By De Vere, Aubrey. 


She sits alone on the cold grave-stone,
And only the dead are near her;
In the tongue of the Gael she makes her wail:
The night wind rushes by her.

"Few, O few are the leal and the true,
And fewer shall be, and fewer;
The land is a corse; no life, no force - 
O wind, with sere leaves strew her!

"Men ask what scope is left for hope
To one who has known her story: - 
I trust her dead! Their graves are red;
But their souls are with God in glory."