Timathai

He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead.
O, Erin, Mourn with grief and woe
For he lies dead whom the fell gang
Of modern hypocrites laid low.
He lies slain by the coward hounds
He raised glory from the mire;
And Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams
Perish upon her monarchs fire.
In palace cabin or cot
The Irish heart, where'er it be
Is bowed with woe-for he is gone
Who would have wrought her destiny
...
Shame on the coward caitiff hands
That smote their Lord or with a kiss
Betrayed him to the rabble-rout
Of fawning priests-no friends of his.

May everlasting shame consume
The memory of those who tried
To befoul and smear the'exalted name
Of one who spurned them in his pride.

Excerpts from "The Death of Parnell" from "Ivy Day in the Committee Room"
By James Joyce