The Bittersweet Republican Poem by Barney Rooney

The ancient order loved to cut a dash
in grey suits slashed by green and golden sash
acting the fools they had become
with their wailing pipes and beating empty drums
flattering in their effort to out-preen
orange marchers emblems and their queen

Careful when to stand or hold their seat
to earn a pass to the catholic elite
smooth tongued well raised boys joined in
brought up on tales of sacrifice and sin
they tried the weight of history's well-worn chains
but lightly, wanting penance without pain

While others looked after their own ends
the dogged few sat close
and quiet among their friends
soldiers of the republic.

Soldiers. There's a wistful thought for sure
claiming a long unbroken war in the listing
of each episode that was fought
and both history and wishful thought foreshort
those dark clear nights decades apart
assembled in make-weight rank
too few to man a brace of tanks
never mind a army.

Neither conscript nor mercenary among them
but patriots, men and women weaned to a cause
by someone who had played their part
bequeathed the family name a solid heart
that beat with forlorn craving for the nation
in anger more than hope or expectation
stumbling on ahead to pay their due
to prove to god knows who their blood ran true

Real armies march and drive
cook and play with trucks and mostly stay alive
but these forsake those odds and all compassion
the lost republic needed martyrs and assassins
petrified with fear or righteousness
no explaining for what is done
the 'cause' brooks no such reflection
coursing through a heart of irish stone

The 'cause', like that nod or barely lifted finger
you'd get on a back country road
from a stranger who mightn't have the call to linger
over a conversation. Every symbol, allegiance,
affectation, yes, them all,
helped bond the bricks and mortar of the wall
between the people of the isle
topped off with the capstone of denial

No bigots they say - jesus, another miracle -
just respecters of difference
different religion, different names,
different songs, different games,
different space and different ways
celebrating different days,
different feeling for the laws,
why? explain? .. aah... because because because....

deep it lies, deep within the breast
we were banished to the hills and wetlands of the west
scattered to the corners of the earth the best
of poets, saints and scholars,
the world's greatest clicketty footed dancers,
wild goosed warriors, navvies and blaggards,
cutting loose from parochial ties,
saw through Maynooth's parochial lies,
to realise the great ideas of people risen from being slaves

Yet, somehow in this cloistered corner missed
that the world had taken a few wee twists
since 1798. Damn you, damn you England,
you fixed us in the time and way
you took our pride and held our land
Its not being you makes us Republican.

We will hold to the great ideas
and the great ideas they never die
though they now find no bed to lie
and grow in comfort. Leaving us as
custodians of dangerous words and thoughts
and a knowledge of the ways and means
arms and wings to hold and lift those dreams
into seditious schemes.

This time it seems that in the official space of grace
we got no further than a provisional place
though those who seemed to win and did the best
say such an epic journey needs its rests.
All the years as victims came with virtue implied
but is it vanity or tiredness lets virtue slide
away back to where we have ever been
sovereign tribute mortgaged now to king Gombeen.

Tiochfaid ar la? It seems unlikely
but would the day be ours?
Ah no, not the day, lay
no claim but to the early dawn
seep light into the darkness of the night
in the brash fullness of the day give way
let others choose to live or fight or play.
The past and present are what destiny held in store,
there is no more,
denied both victory and defeat
does that seem bittersweet.
too bittersweet?