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I've read it several times since, and with each reading I've found something new to admire. It is a beautifully compiled tribute. Not only to two young Volunteers, but to two lifelong friends whose bond carried them from childhood innocence to comradeship in one of the most defining chapters of modern Irish history.
More than a story of conflict, it is a story of friendship, brotherhood, family, love, loyalty and conviction. It reminds us that before Seán and Eugene became Volunteers of the East Tyrone Brigade, they were simply two boys who grew up side by side, sharing the same dreams and the same roads.
This has been a labour of respect for some time now. I only hope these words have done justice to Seán, Eugene, and the enduring bond they shared.
The Ballad Of The Blackwater Boys
Hearken, O' hills of Blackwater's shore,
And hearken, O' winds that wander Slieve Gallion;
Raise now your voices with oak and ash,
For two noble sons of Éire are remembered.
♞♜♝
Not yesterday was their story fashioned,
Nor in the fleeting hour of mortal breath;
Its roots lie deep beneath the stones
Where the Red Hand first guarded Ulster,
Where O'Neill's banner kissed the morning,
And the harp of Tara answered the raven.
♞♜♝
The earth remembers.
♞♜♝
Before the sword was placed in willing hand,
Before the oath was spoken beneath silent stars,
They were but children,
Laughing beneath orchard boughs,
Following streams through meadow grass,
While skylarks climbed towards heaven
And their mothers called them home at dusk.
♞♜♝
In Collegelands first cried Seán,
A son of Kevin and Maura,
Born where memory walked beside every hearth.
His cradle was rocked
By tales of Easter's flame,
Of men who would not bend the knee,
Of Éire's ancient sovereignty.
♞♜♝
Not many moons thereafter
Eugene entered the world,
Son of Benedict and Annastatia,
Quiet of speech,
Steadfast in heart,
His eyes already reflecting
The steadfast hills of Tyrone.
♞♜♝
The Almighty bound them early,
As oak is joined to earth
And river finds the sea.
♞♜♝
Together they crossed the schoolyard gate,
Together they knelt before the altar,
Together they chased the leather ball
Across fields bright with summer rain.
No envy dwelt between them,
No falsehood darkened their friendship,
For each strengthened the other
As twin oaks standing against the western wind.
♞♜♝
Seán, fleet-footed upon the green,
Could send the ball soaring
Like a hawk riding the mountain air.
His laughter carried farther than the curlew's cry,
And every comrade sought his company.
♞♜♝
Eugene fashioned timber with patient hands,
Finding beauty where others saw only labour.
Strong as the ash,
Gentle as falling snow,
He spoke little,
Yet every word bore honesty.
♞♜♝
But dark clouds gathered beyond the horizon.
♞♜♝
The ancient wound of Éire's
Had not been healed.
The stranger's law still ruled the valleys;
The mailed fist still guarded the gates.
Justice was measured unequally,
And many honest homes
Knew the weight of fear before the dawn.
♞♜♝
The young beheld what their fathers had borne,
And what their grandfathers before them.
They saw doors broken,
Families scattered,
Voices silenced beneath the truncheon,
And truth answered by the rifle.
♞♜♝
Then awoke within them
The old inheritance.
♞♜♝
Not hatred.
Not hunger for glory.
But the solemn burden
Passed from generation unto generation,
♞♜♝
As flame is carried from one candle to another,
Unbroken through the centuries.
♞♜♝
So they stood among the Volunteers,
Not for silver,
Nor for the praise of men,
But believing they answered
The ancient call of their people.
♞♜♝
Brief were their years,
Yet full were their deeds.
♞♜♝
The spring blossoms had scarcely opened
When destiny summoned them.
Upon a May evening
The road received them,
And Éire gathered two more names
Into the long roll of her faithful dead.
♞♜♝
The bells of the Moy answered.
The piper mourned.
The Blackwater flowed in silence,
As thousands came walking,
Bareheaded beneath heaven,
To bear witness
That honour had not departed from the land.
♞♜♝
No monument of polished granite
Can equal such remembrance.
♞♜♝
While children still play
Beneath the orchard trees;
While the Blackwater runs to Lough Neagh;
While the old songs are sung
Beside winter fires;
While Éire remembers her own,
♞♜♝
The names of Seán McKearney
And Eugene Martin
Shall not fade.
♞♜♝
For stone may weather,
And bronze may darken,
But the memory of noble hearts
Endures in the soul of a nation.
♞♜♝
May the green hills keep them.
May the rivers speak their names.
May every generation yet unborn
Know that two friends walked together,
Lived together,
And now forever rest together,
♞♜♝
Among the heroes of Éire.
♞♜♝
I measc na laochra go deo.
⏩Pádraig Drummond is an anti-racism activist.
