He toiled to make our story stand,
As from Time’s reverent, runic hand –
It came, undecked
By fancies false; erect, alone,
the monumental arctic stone
Of ages wrecked.

Truth was his solitary test,
His star, his chart, his east, his west ;
Nor is there aught
In text, in ocean, or in mine,
Of greater worth, or more divine
Than this he sought.

With gentle hand he rectified
The errors of old bardic pride,
And set aright
The story of our devious past,
And left it, as it now must last,
Full in the light.

The Dead Antiquary O’Donovan by Thomas D’Arcy McGee.

Am I remembered in Erin?
I charge you, speak me true!
Has my name a sound – a meaning,
In the scenes my boyhood knew?
Does the heart of the Mother ever
Recall her exile’s name?
For to be forgot in Erin,
And on earth, were all the same.

Oh, Mother! Mother Erin!
Many sons your age hath seen –
Many gifted constant lovers
Since your mantle first was green;
Then how in may I hope to cherish
The dream that I could be
In your crowded memory number’d
With that palm-crowned company?

Yet faint and far, my Mother!
As the hope shines on my sight,
I cannot choose but watch it
Till my eyes have lost their light;
For never among your brightest
And never among your best,
Was heart more true to Erin
Than beats within my breast.

Written by Thomas D’Arcy McGee.