Far are we now from cowed and retiring Irishness
Lapped up by the eyes of Yeats and his like,
All worn Bible and sworn twice:
Once to the IRA in the byre, in an Irish voice, and once to His Highness.
Distant now from trumpet sounds and proud viceregalities
Wooded estates with faun follies and other such frivolities.
Open pride and sins in septet
Disturbed what slept,
Raked at, what was best left.
Alchemisland 
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