THE MOTHER I do not grudge them; Lord, I do not grudge My two strong sons that I have seen go out To break their strength and die, they and a few, In bloody protest for a glorious thing. They shall be spoken of among their people, The generations shall remember them, And call them blessed; But I will speak their names to my own heart In the long nights; The little names that were familiar once Round my dead hearth. Lord, thou art hard on mothers: We suffer in their coming and their going; And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary Of the long sorrow -- And yet I have my joy: My sons were faithful, and they fought. -- Padraic Pearse (1879-1916) wrote this poem for his mother just before he and his brother went out to fight in the Rising of 1916.