Requiem for the Croppies
The pockets
of our greatcoats, full of barley —
No kitchens
on the run, no striking camp —
We moved
quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest
lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people,
hardly marching — on the hike—
We found
new tactics happening each day:
We’d cut
through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede
cattle into infantry,
Then retreat
through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until,
on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
Terraced
thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside
blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried
us without shroud or coffin
And in
August the barley grew up out of the grave.
