The Memory of the Dead

The Memory of the Dead by John Kells Ingram

1843

Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?

Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate

Who hangs his head for shame?

He's all a knave, or half a slave,

Who slights his country thus;

But a true man, like you, man,

Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,

The faithful and the few:

Some lie far off beyond the wave,

Some sleep in Ireland, too;

All,all are gone; but still lives on

The fame of those who died;

All true men, like you, men,

Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands

Their weary hearts have laid,

And by the stranger's heedless hands

Their lonely graves were made;

But, though their clay be far away

Beyond the Atlantic foam,

In true men, like you, men,

Their spirit's still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth,

Among their own they rest,

And the same land that gave them birth

Has caught them to her breast;

And we will pray that from their clay

Full many a race may start

Of true men, like you, men,

To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evl days

To right their native land;

They kindled here a living blaze

That nothing shall withstand.

Alas! that Might can vanquish Right-

They fell and passed away;

But true men, like you men,

Are plenty here today.

Then here's their memory-may it be

For us a guiding light,

To cheer our strife for liberty,

And teach us to unite-

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,

Though sad as theirs your fate,

And true men be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-Eight.

Source: Biography of Ingram by S. D. Barrett