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 final 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 our grave.

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