Romantic Ireland

‘What about your ‘flaky’ policies?’ the RTE interviewer taunted Green leader Joe Gormley.

‘Like?’ he asked, failing to correct the man.

‘Opposition to American rendition flights … to the use of Shannon for the American War effort … your support for the Mayo residents over the Corrib gas project ..’

Gormley procrastinated. ‘Discussions have yet to begin. I’d be happy to see Trevor Sergeant fill any government post.’ 

It augurs ill for those of us who support Green Party principles.

 Still we must wait and see.

There were no clear winners – only clear losers. Chief among the latter were the PDs and Sinn Fein. [The single biggest loss to the Dail and to the country was the defeat of the only Socialist Party TD Joe Higgins!]. 

With clear relief (since Sinn Fein were limited to just 4 TDs) all others reiterated their determination to exclude Gerry Adams’ team even from discussions. Yet throughout the campaign, they all attempted to bask in the reflected glory of a Northern ‘political settlement.’

Meanwhile up in Belfast, while Ruane and Murphy (and Gildernew) mince the three-step in Stormont corridors as Ministers, the Assembly underlines its determination to reject not just the Belfast Agreement, but the St Andrew’s one as well. The Equality Bill is rejected, as is the Irish Language Act. The non-existent Ulster-Scots language must have equal billing. The ‘discrimination against Protestants’ (who represent a mere 80% of the total) in the RUC/PSNI must be halted. DUP policies alone will be implemented.

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To clear my head before falling asleep last night I reached for a newly published tome of selected Yeats’ poetry.

The following is almost a century old. 

Who would believe it?

‘What need you, being come to sense

But fumble in a greasy till

And add the halfpence to the pence

And prayer to shivering prayer, until

You have dried the marrow from the bone?

For men were born to pray and save:

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,

It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

 

Yet they were of a different kind,

The names that stilled your childish play,

They have gone about the world like wind,

But little time had they to pray

For whom the hangman’s rope was spun,

And what, God help us, could they save?

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,

It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

 

Was it for this the wild geese spread

The grey wing on every tide;

For this that all that blood was shed,

For this Edward Fitzgerald died,

And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,

All that delirium of the brave?

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,

It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

 

{A biopic of Edward Fitzgerald will follow here shortly!}