 A Song of Defeat by Stephen Gwyn, from the Book of Irish Poetry, part one, read for LibriVox.org by Fone. Not for the lucky warriors, the winner at Waterloo, or him of a newer name, whom loud-voiced triumphs acclaim Victor against a few. Not for these, O heir, I build in my heart today the lay of your sons and you. I call to your mind today, out of the mists of the past, many a hull, and many a mast, black in the bite of the bay, over against Ben Eder and the lip of the ebbing tightway all, rend with a life of the gale and gall, and the danes in a headlong slaughter sent, and the women of air keening, for Brian slain at his tent. Mother, O grey, sad mother, love with the troubled eyes, for whom I marshaled today the sad and splendid array, calling the lost to arise, as some queen's courtier unbidden might fetch her gems to the sun, praising the glory and glow of all that was hers to show. Heir, love Brian well, for Brian fault, and he fell, but Brian fault, and he won. God, that was long ago, nearer and dearer to you. Heir, heir mo brome, listen to a name of your own. A sweet name, my sorrow, are the sons that flamed and faded in a night that had no morrow. I call to your mind, red hue, and the castle's broken ward. I call to your mind, O kneel, and a fight at the yellow fort, and the ships afloat on the main, bearing O'Donnell to Spain, for the flame of his quick and leaping soul to be quenched in a venom'd bull, and the shore by the swillies' shadows, and the earls pushed out through the foam, and O kneel in his grave-clothes lying, with the wish of his heart in Ireland, and his body cold in Rome. I call to your mind, Ben Burr, and his stubborn Ulster steel, and a triumph of Owen Row, Clonmo, and the glorious stand of the younger Hugh O'Neill, and Owen Dent at Derry, and Cromwell Loost on the land. I call to your mind, brave Sarsfield, and a battle in Limerick Street, the mine and the shattered wall, and the battered breach held good, and William full in retreat, and at the end of all, wild geese rising on clamorous wing to follow the flight of an alien king, and the hard-won treaty broke, and the elder faith oppressed, and the blood, but not for Ireland, red upon Sarsfield's breast, ended the role of the great and famous leaders of armies, the shining lamps of the gale, who wrestled a while with fate, and broke the battle of Thoman, near the end left widowed air, lone with her desolate will. Lone yet forsaken, out of no far dim past, call I the names of the lost who strove and suffered for air. Saddest and nearest of all, see how they flock to the call, the troop of famous felons, who won no joy of the sword, who tasted of no reward, but the faint flushed dawn of a one sick hope, and over whose lives they're dangled ever the shame of the rope. I call to your mind, Lord Edward, tone with his mangled throat, Emmet high on the gallows, O'Brien, Mitchell, and meager, I, and of newer note, names that air will not forget, though some have faded in far-off lands, and some have passed by the hangman's hands, and some are breathing yet. Not for these, O air, not for these, or thee, pipers, trumpeters, blaring loud, the throbbing drums, and the colors flying, and the long-drawn muffled roar of the crowd, the voice of a human sea. There's it is to inherit fame of a finer grace, in the self-renewing spirit, and the untameable heart ever defeated, yet undefeated, of die-remembering race, for their names are treasured apart, and their memories green and sweet, on every hillside and every mart, in every cabin, in every street, of a land where the fail is more than to triumph, and victory less than defeat. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, edited and translated by Alfred Percival Graves.