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. |