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Killala Man, Remembered

He never went home. We know not his name…
A man from Mayo… we pass where he sleeps,
He who died for a freedom his countyman gives away,
Few of his grave knows, or his memory alive keeps…
But those that do… they do remember him…
Unknown soldier, all is known bar his name…
Abandoned by French allies, Scot and Gael faced the Crown forces
From Ulster and Connacht and Longford the fighters came,
Pikes and muskets borne, but a few cannon,
Saotaged in transit due to the paid for word spoken,
A doomed pilgrimage to a self appointed Calvary
They faced foe and fire, more than mere token,
A little Mayo some want, hands in greasy till,
Of whom Yeats wrote, whose kind here still thrive,
This grave… of the Killala man… it IS Mayo
And all of Ireland in a plot when and where his memory is kept alive.

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