Silken Thomas

The bauld FitzGeral of Kildare

In daring, doing; in doing, uncaring

False rumours have reached mantle-tickled ear

Hearsay leashed him and rash course steered

Wars, rumours of wars

Fathers hanged in Rometown towers.

Tudorcousin garbed richly

In Dublin’s marble heart

Faith compel to heel

Rebellion inchoate

“A villain you are not, Thomas.

Always doubting, since Christ,

Will you not secede sedition

And kneel to Henry’s will?”

Upon visitor’s visage

Gall’s approaching limit

Bards bolster courage faltering

His heart to win

Singing glorious deeds

Forefathers and martyrs.

Holds aloft that mighty blade

Silken Thomas’ Sword of State

Casts it defiantly upon the table

Vomiting out wasteful war

Sorrowful end to age of Gaels.

Before month’s done

Soldiers will scale Dublin Castle’s walls

Silk-fringed Gallowglasses with contemporary hipster haircuts

Wielding enormous claymores, pore through a hole in the curtain wall

Like a vast viaduct arch, ducking arrows and muttering charms.

Cannonstruck castellations crumbling

Collapsing like cancelled constellations

Fumbling clumsy one-done rifles guts unstucking

Struck drummond outsummons

Every hidden rebel Mizen to Malin

Risen to Silken Tom’s banner.

Alchemisland