Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain Somewhere
in ear-shot for the story's end, Old
Dublin merchant “free of the ten and four” Or
trading out of Galway into Spain; Old
country scholar, Robert Emmet’s friend, A
hundred-year-old memory to the poor; Merchant
and scholar who have left me blood That
has not passed through any huckster’s loin, Soldiers
that gave, whatever die was cast: A
Butler or an Armstrong that withstood Beside
the brackish waters of the Boyne James
and his Irish when the Dutchman crossed; Old
merchant skipper that leaped overboard After
a ragged hat in Biscay Bay; You
most of all, silent and fierce old man, Because
the daily spectacle that stirred My
fancy, and set my boyish lips to say, “Only
the wasteful virtues earn the sun”; Pardon
that for a barren passion’s sake, Although
I have come close on forty-nine, I
have no child, I have nothing but a book, Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine. |
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