Larkin
Larkin, Larkin!
The chorus of the
starving.
Chanting at the
Lockout Gates
Through the cold,
carving.
Larkin, Larkin!
The slogan on the
picket.
Hobnails on the rainy
cobbles
Music of the Striking
thicket.
Larkin, Larkin!
The echo of the slum.
Resounding in the Dublin
streets
Against the baton’s drum.
Larkin, Larkin!
From those who trade
the dawn.
For tenants in a
pauper’s grave
Or ghosts upon the Somme
Larkin, Larkin!
The voice no longer
speaks.
The Irish heart is
dead and gone
It dwells beneath the clique.
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