‘The Execution of Archbishop Plunkett’ by Thomas D'Arcy McGee

Another scaffold looms up through the night,
Another Irish martyr’s hour draws near,
The cruel crowd are gathering for the sight,
The July day dawns innocently clear;
There is no hue of blood along the sky,
Where the meek martyr waits for light to die!

Which is the culprit in the car of death?
He of the open brow and folded hands!
The turbid crowd court every easy breath,
There is no need on him of gyves or bands;
Pale, with long bonds and vigils, yet benign,
He bears upon his breast salvation’s sign.

What was his crime? Did he essay to shake
The pillar of the state, or undermine
The laws which vow a worthy vengeance,
And punish treason with a death condign?
Look in that holy face, and there behold
The secret of the sufferer’s life all told.

Enough! he was of Irish birth and blood,
He fill’d Saint Patrick’s place in stormy days,
He lived, discharging duty, doing good,
Death to the world, and the world’s idle praise, —
The faithless saw his faith with evil eyes,
They doom’d him without stain, and here he dies.