
With all the results in and the dust hardly settled after the Southern election, some party leaders and the so-called Independent TDs are rushing to the media to jettison the principles so recently enunciated and to aver their solidity in support for a Fianna Fail coalition government.
‘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
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
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!}