I found this little piece by William Butler in his daughter, Eileen Gormanston's, autobiography, "A Little Kept". She found it among his papers after his death. For some details of his life see here. The old photos from the west of Ireland are from "Lost Ireland", by Laurence O'Connor.

A Request

Give me but six-foot-three (one inch to spare)
Of Irish earth, and dig it anywhere;
And for my poor soul say an Irish prayer
- Above the spot.

Let it be hill where cloud and mountain meet,
Or vale where grows the tufted meadowsweet,
Or "boreen" trod by peasants' shoeless feet:
- It matters not.

I loved them all--the vale, the hill,
The moaning sea, the water-lillied rill,
The yellow gorse, the lake-shore lone and still,
- The wild birds' song.

But more than hill or valley, bird or moor,
More than the green fields of the river Suir,
I loved those hapless ones, the Irish poor,
- All my life long.

Little I did for them in outward deed,
And yet be unto them of praise the meed
For the stiff fight I waged 'gainst lust and greed.
- I learned it there,

So give me Irish grave, 'mid Irish air,
With Irish grass above it-anywhere;
And let some Irish peasant say a prayer
- For my soul's care

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Illustrated Verse.