| |
| O WOMAN of the piercing wail, | |
| Who mournest o’er yon mound of clay | |
| With sigh and groan, | |
| Would God thou wert among the Gael! | |
| Thou would’st not then from day to day | 5 |
| Weep thus alone. | |
| ’Twere long before around a grave | |
| In green Tyrconnel, one could find | |
| This loneliness; | |
| Near where Beann-Boirche’s banners wave, | 10 |
| Such grief as thine could ne’er have pined | |
| Companionless. | |
| |
| Beside the wave in Donegal, | |
| In Antrim’s glens, or fair Dromore, | |
| Or Killilee, | 15 |
| Or where the sunny waters fall | |
| At Assaroe, near Erna shore, | |
| This could not be. | |
| On Derry’s plains, in rich Drumcliff, | |
| Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned | 20 |
| In olden years, | |
| No day could pass but woman’s grief | |
| Would rain upon the burial-ground | |
| Fresh floods of tears! | |
| |
| O no!—From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, | 25 |
| From high Dunluce’s castle-walls, | |
| From Lissadill, | |
| Would flock alike both rich and poor: | |
| One wail would rise from Cruachan’s halls | |
| To Tara Hill; | 30 |
| And some would come from Barrow-side, | |
| And many a maid would leave her home | |
| On Leitrim’s plains, | |
| And by melodious Banna’s tide, | |
| And by the Mourne and Erne, to come | 35 |
| And swell thy strains! | |
| |
| O, horses’ hoofs would trample down | |
| The mount whereon the martyr-saint | |
| Was crucified; | |
| From glen and hill, from plain and town, | 40 |
| One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, | |
| Would echo wide | |
| There would not soon be found, I ween, | |
| One foot of ground among those bands | |
| For museful thought, | 45 |
| So many shriekers of the keen | |
| Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, | |
| All woe-distraught! | |
| |
| Two princes of the line of Conn | |
| Sleep in their cells of clay beside | 50 |
| O’Donnell Roe: | |
| Three royal youths, alas! are gone, | |
| Who lived for Erin’s weal, but died | |
| For Erin’s woe. | |
| Ah, could the men of Ireland read | 55 |
| The names those noteless burial-stones | |
| Display to view, | |
| Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, | |
| Their tears gush forth again, their groans | |
| Resound anew! | 60 |
| |
| The youths whose relics moulder here | |
| Were sprung from Hugh, high prince and lord | |
| Of Aileach’s lands; | |
| Thy noble brothers, justly dear, | |
| Thy nephew, long to be deplored | 65 |
| By Ulster’s bands. | |
| Theirs were not souls wherein dull time | |
| Could domicile decay, or house | |
| Decrepitude! | |
| They passed from earth ere manhood’s prime, | 70 |
| Ere years had power to dim their brows, | |
| Or chill their blood. | |
| |
| And who can marvel o’er thy grief, | |
| Or who can blame thy flowing tears, | |
| Who knows their source? | 75 |
| O’Donnell, Dunnasava’s chief, | |
| Cut off amid his vernal years, | |
| Lies here a corse | |
| Beside his brother Cathbar, whom | |
| Tyrconnell of the Helmets mourns | 80 |
| In deep despair: | |
| For valour, truth, and comely bloom, | |
| For all that greatens and adorns, | |
| A peerless pair. | |
| |
| Oh, had these twain, and he, the third, | 85 |
| The Lord of Mourne, O’Niall’s son | |
| (Their mate in death), | |
| A prince in look, in deed, and word, | |
| Had these three heroes yielded on | |
| The field their breath, | 90 |
| Oh, had they fallen on Criffan’s plain, | |
| There would not be a town or clan | |
| From shore to sea, | |
| But would with shrieks bewail the slain, | |
| Or chant aloud the exulting rann | 95 |
| Of jubilee! | |
| |
| When high the shout of battle rose, | |
| On fields where Freedom’s torch still burned | |
| Through Erin’s gloom, | |
| If one, if barely one of those | 100 |
| Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned | |
| The hero’s doom! | |
| If at Athboy, where hosts of brave | |
| Ulidian horsemen sank beneath | |
| The shock of spears, | 105 |
| Young Hugh O’Neill had found a grave, | |
| Long must the North have wept his death | |
| With heart-wrung tears! | |
| |
| If on the day of Ballach-myre | |
| The Lord of Mourne had met thus young, | 110 |
| A warrior’s fate, | |
| In vain would such as thou desire | |
| To mourn, alone, the champion sprung | |
| From Niall the Great! | |
| No marvel this—for all the dead, | 115 |
| Heaped on the field, pile over pile, | |
| At Mullach-brack, | |
| Were scarce an eric for his head, | |
| If death had stayed his footsteps while | |
| On victory’s track! | 120 |
| |
| If on the Day of Hostages | |
| The fruit had from the parent bough | |
| Been rudely torn | |
| In sight of Munster’s bands-MacNee’s— | |
| Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, | 125 |
| Could ill have borne. | |
| If on the day of Ballach-boy | |
| Some arm had laid by foul surprise, | |
| The chieftain low, | |
| Even our victorious shout of joy | 130 |
| Would soon give place to rueful cries | |
| And groans of woe! | |
| |
| If on the day the Saxon host | |
| Were forced to fly—a day so great | |
| For Ashanee— | 135 |
| The Chief had been untimely lost, | |
| Our conquering troops should moderate | |
| Their mirthful glee. | |
| There would not lack on Lifford’s day, | |
| From Galway, from the glens of Boyle, | 140 |
| From Limerick’s towers, | |
| A marshalled file, a long array | |
| Of mourners to bedew the soil | |
| With tears in showers! | |
| |
| If on the day a sterner fate | 145 |
| Compelled his flight from Athenree, | |
| His blood had flowed, | |
| What numbers all disconsolate, | |
| Would come unasked, and share with thee | |
| Affliction’s load! | 150 |
| If Derry’s crimson field had seen | |
| His life-blood offered up, though ’twere | |
| On Victory’s shrine, | |
| A thousand cries would swell the keen, | |
| A thousand voices of despair | 155 |
| Would echo thine! | |
| |
| Oh, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm | |
| That bloody night of Fergus’ banks | |
| But slain our Chief, | |
| When rose his camp in wild alarm— | 160 |
| How would the triumph of his ranks | |
| be dashed with grief! | |
| How would the troops of Murbach Mourn | |
| If on the Curlew Mountains’ day | |
| Which England rued, | 165 |
| Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, | |
| By shedding there, amid the fray, | |
| Their prince’s blood! | |
| |
| Red would have been our warriors’ eyes | |
| Had Roderick found on Sligo’s field | 170 |
| A gory grave, | |
| No Northern Chief would soon arise | |
| So sage to guide, so strong to shield, | |
| So swift to save. | |
| Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh | 175 |
| Had met the death he oft had dealt | |
| Among the foe; | |
| But, had our Roderick fallen too, | |
| All Erin must, alas! have felt | |
| The deadly blow! | 180 |
| |
| What do I say? Ah, woe is me! | |
| Already we bewail in vain | |
| Their fatal fall! | |
| And Erin, once the great and free, | |
| Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, | 185 |
| And iron thrall. | |
| Then, daughter of O’Donnell, dry | |
| Thine overflowing eyes, and turn | |
| Thy heart aside, | |
| For Adam’s race is born to die, | 190 |
| And sternly the sepulchral urn | |
| Mocks human pride. | |
| |
| Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, | |
| Nor place thy trust in arm of clay, | |
| But on thy knees | 195 |
| Uplift thy soul to God Alone, | |
| For all things go their destined way | |
| As He decrees. | |
| Embrace the faithful crucifix, | |
| And seek the path of pain and prayer | 200 |
| Thy Saviour trod; | |
| Nor let thy spirit intermix | |
| With earthly hope, with worldly care, | |
| Its groans to God! | |
| |
| And Thou, O mighty Lord! Whose Ways | 205 |
| Are far above our feeble minds | |
| To understand, | |
| Sustain us in these doleful days, | |
| And render light the chain that binds | |
| Our fallen land! | 210 |
