The Whaups (To S R Crockett)

“BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying—  
 Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,  
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,  
 My heart remembers how!  
 
“Gray, recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,  
 Standing stones on the vacant, red-wine moor,  
Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races  
 And winds austere and pure!  
 
“Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,  
 Hills of home! and I hear again the call—  
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the pee-wees crying,  
 And hear no more at all.”