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216 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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MY GRAVE
S
HALL they bury me in the deep, Where wind-forgetting waters sleep ? Shall they dig a grave for me, Under the greenwood tree ? Or on the wild heath, Where the wilder breath Of the storm doth blow ? Oh, no ! oh, no !
Shall they bury me in the palace tombs,
Or under the shade of cathedral domes ?
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;
Yet not there—nor in Greece, though I love it more.
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find ?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground ?
Just as they fall they are buried so —
Oh, no ! oh, no !
No ! on an Irish green hillside, On an opening lawn—but not too wide; For I love the drip of the wetted trees — I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze, To freshen the turf;—put no tombstone there, But green sods decked with daisies fair; Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew The matted grass-roots may trickle through. Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind : " He served his country, and loved his kind."
Oh ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go, If one were sure to be buried so. |
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