| |
| MY HEART is in woe, | |
| And my soul deep in trouble,— | |
| For the mighty are low, | |
| And abased are the noble: | |
| |
| The Sons of the Gael | 5 |
| Are in exile and mourning, | |
| Worn, weary, and pale | |
| As spent pilgrims returning; | |
| |
| Or men who, in flight | |
| From the field of disaster, | 10 |
| Beseech the black night | |
| On their flight to fall faster; | |
| |
| Or seamen aghast | |
| When their planks gape asunder, | |
| And the waves fierce and fast | 15 |
| Tumble through in hoarse thunder; | |
| |
| Or men whom we see | |
| That have got their death-omen,— | |
| Such wretches are we | |
| In the chains of our foemen! | 20 |
| |
| Our courage is fear, | |
| Our nobility vileness, | |
| Our hope is despair, | |
| And our comeliness foulness. | |
| |
| There is mist on our heads, | 25 |
| And a cloud chill and hoary | |
| Of black sorrow, sheds | |
| An eclipse on our glory. | |
| |
| From Boyne to the Linn | |
| Has the mandate been given, | 30 |
| That the children of Finn | |
| From their country be driven. | |
| |
| That the sons of the king— | |
| Oh, the treason and malice!— | |
| Shall no more ride the ring | 35 |
| In their own native valleys; | |
| |
| No more shall repair | |
| Where the hill foxes tarry, | |
| Nor forth to the air | |
| Fling the hawk at her quarry: | 40 |
| |
| For the plain shall be broke | |
| By the share of the stranger, | |
| And the stone-mason’s stroke | |
| Tell the woods of their danger; | |
| |
| The green hills and shore | 45 |
| Be with white keeps disfigured, | |
| And the Mote of Rathmore | |
| Be the Saxon churl’s haggard! | |
| |
| The land of the lakes | |
| Shall no more know the prospect | 50 |
| Of valleys and brakes— | |
| So transformed is her aspect! | |
| |
| The Gael cannot tell, | |
| In the uprooted wildwood | |
| And the red ridgy dell, | 55 |
| The old nurse of his childhood: | |
| |
| The nurse of his youth | |
| Is in doubt as she views him, | |
| If the wan wretch, in truth, | |
| Be the child of her bosom. | 60 |
| |
| We starve by the board, | |
| And we thirst amid wassail— | |
| For the guest is the lord, | |
| And the host is the vassal! | |
| |
| Through the woods let us roam, | 65 |
| Through the wastes wild and barren; | |
| We are strangers at home! | |
| We are exiles in Erin! | |
| |
| And Erin’s a bark | |
| O’er the wide waters driven! | 70 |
| And the tempest howls dark, | |
| And her side planks are riven! | |
| |
| And in billows of might | |
| Swell the Saxon before her,— | |
| Unite, oh, unite! | 75 |
| Or the billows burst o’er her! | |
