Two warriors share a final cup of wine on the night before a battle. They know that by this time tomorrow they may be dead, and the thought of the children and friends they’ll leave behind brings tears to their eyes. Rather than sink into grief, the speaker turns the wine itself into a gesture of defiant comfort — the goblet is “weeping” too, so they’ll chase away their own sorrow with its drops. His mood is a restless blend of tenderness, dread, and fierce resolve.
As daylight creeps in, he brushes aside the painful memory of the children playing in the last sunrise. The question “where shall we / And those rosy urchins be?” hangs unanswered, but he refuses to linger. He calls his comrade to grasp his sword, sneers at those who meekly accept foreign chains, and with a quick sigh and prayer throws everything into a cry for Ireland. The poem pulses with a soldier’s intimate vulnerability, then hardens into a ringing, almost desperate battle shout.