The Little Clan, Frederick Higgins.

The Little Clan.
by Frederick Robert Higgins, 1896-?

Over their edge of earth
They wearily tread,
Leaving the stone-grey dew—
The hungry grass;
Most proud in their own defeat,
These last men pass
This labouring grass that bears them
Little bread.

Too full their spring-tide flowed,
And ebbing then
Has left each hooker deep
Within salt grass;
All ebbs, yet lives in their song;
Song shall not pass
With these most desperate,
Most noble men!

Then, comfort your own sorrow;
Time has heard
One groping singer hold
A burning face;
You mourn no living Troy,
Then mourn no less
The living glory of
Each Gaelic word.