RO-CAOL-0053

Writing at top

Major James Plunkett

Died 1828

EPITAPH

Let him who loves his country drop a tear,

Revere this spot, a patriot’s bones lie here.

This stone is sacred to James Plunkett’s name,

He Major was, if that aught of fame.

In Erin’s Isle he drew his vital breath

In Erin’s Isle he yielded unto death

For Erin’s dangers he underwent

From Erin he near thirty years was sent

His only crime if crime it could be deemed

With too much love his generous bosom teemed

For his dear country and if aught availed

To assert her rights his soul would ne’er have failed

Her wrongs sunk deep to his indignant breast

He heard its call and followed it behest

Vain were his efforts but his motives pure

No fault was his the time was premature

Still while the sun salutes his humble tomb

While night is lighted by the silver moon 

While leaves the trees while verdure clothes the plain

His name, his praise, his honour shall remain

Unequalled glory when the aged sire

Shall tell his son, his bosom all on fire

See where the great heroic Plunkett lies

Whose noble spirit now enjoys the skies