Requieum for the Croppies
by Seamus Heaney

The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley …
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp …
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people hardly marching … on the hike …
We found new tactics happening each day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until … on Vinegar Hill … the final conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August … the barley grew up out of our grave.
 
 
* History of the Croppies *
The Croppies' Grave   *  A Speech at Croppie's Acre   *