A Celebration 
of Women Writers

"In Glengormley" by Ethna Carbery [aka Mrs. Seumus MacManus, Anna Johnston] (1866-1902)
From: The Four Winds of Eirinn: Poems by Ethna Carbery. (Anna MacManus.), Complete Edition, Edited by Seumas MacManus. Dublin, Ireland: M. H. Gill and Son, Ltd. 1906. pp. 120-121.

Editor: Mary Mark 
Ockerbloom

[Page 120] 

IN GLENGORMLEY.

'Tis Summer in Glengormley,
  And the mountain gorse aglow
Sends shafts of gold adown the slopes
  Where we were wont to go;
The thrushes pipe as sweet, as clear,
  The streamlet sings all day
By daisied grass and heather-bells–
  But you are far away!

Her star had dawned for our sad land,
  Her rallying-call had pealed
Loud from the city's market-place
  Over each sun-kissed field;
And the loving heart that beat for me,
  Was to the Mother true;
So forth you fared to take your place
  Among the dauntless few.

Though prison walls should sunder
  Our hands, that clasped, a stór,
Though lonely years should weigh me down,
  And you come back no more;
Though our bright dreams be unfulfilled,
  No shameful tears shall rise
To mar the memory of the smile
  That lit my love's brave eyes.

[Page 121] 

I'd rather see you cold, love,
  Beneath the shamrock screen,
Than know you traitor to your God,
  And traitor to the Green!
I'd rather see your dear, fair head
  On spear-point of the foe,
Than know when Ireland needed you
  You never struck a blow!

She's worth all bitter pangs endured
  For her sweet, holy sake,
By manly hearts that meet the steel,
  And women's hearts that break;
Should weaker souls grow faint and cold,
  Oh, never, love, forget
The land your father died to save
  Is yours to die for yet.

But God may hear my pleading prayer,
  And, haply, His decree
May bring you safe ere Summer wanes
  To home, and love, and me;
My pride to know you never quailed!
  My joy to kiss each scar
For Ireland borne, with Ireland's sons,
  On battle-fields afar.

And the thrushes in Glengormley
  Shall trill a song of hope,
The streamlet rush to welcome you
  Adown the heathery slope,
The sad soul of the Motherland
  Arise, erect and free,
When you come back, oh, true and brave,
  To my glad heart and me!

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Editor: Mary 
Mark Ockerbloom