WRITTEN TO THE LONDONDERRY AIR <br /> <br />'Tira autumn sun your shadow's flung, my Cahill, <br />Upon the field where now your reapmg's done, <br />Lo, there! And lo! Your reaper's wreath of rushes <br />Is on your forehead like a kingly crown. <br /> <br />'And I have come to name you King of Connacht, <br />And bid you where O'Connor's muster grows: <br />No shadow-king, but one to front the Norman, <br />And rear the standard that all Eire knows.' <br /> <br />'Farewell,' he said, 'farewell the field I've sickled, <br />Farewell the youths whose backs were bent with mine, <br />Farewell the maids whose singing now comes to me <br />'O Brighid, bless our fields, our roofs, our kine!'' <br /> <br />'No Norman keep shall frown above your labors, <br />No pale they'll make to hold our Irish deer; <br />A true-born scion of Connacht's kings, I go now: <br />This brand, my father's sword, shall lead your axe, <br />your spear.'<br /><br />Padraic Colum<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/king-cahill-s-farewell-to-the-rye-field/
