A Vigil (Brid Ni Cuinneagain)

A vigil through the night; deep silence reigns;

A whispered word at dawn - "The hour is nigh."

Day steals from the east as at the window panes

We listen - and yet we hope he will not die.

That sound? My God! 'tis but a bird on wing

And yet we startle, every ear astrain.

To hear that volley through the silence ring

Breathless we listen for that leaden rain.

Reprieved, perhaps? Ah, no! That hope is vain.

Their quenchless lust for blood all justice scorns.

But he will feel the glory, not the pain

Of death. His path is roses and not thorns.

At length the rifles peal; some pigeons fly.

Silence reigns once more; O'Neill is dead!

Noble bearer of a noble name, you lie

In hallowed soil. Your sacrifice is made.