The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley... <br />No kitchens on the run, no striking camp... <br />We moved quick and sudden in our own country. <br />The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp. <br />A people hardly marching... on the hike... <br />We found new tactics happening each day: <br />We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike <br />And stampede cattle into infantry, <br />Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown. <br />Until... on Vinegar Hill... the final conclave. <br />Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon. <br />The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave. <br />They buried us without shroud or coffin <br />And in August... the barley grew up out of our grave.<br /><br />Seamus Heaney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/requiem-for-the-croppies/
