Padraic Colum (1881–1972). Anthology of Irish Verse. 1922.
By James Clarence Mangan86. A Farewell to Patrick Sarsfield, Earl of Lucan
F
Your camp is broken up, your work is marred for years;
But you go to kindle into flame the King of France’s wrath,
Though you leave sick Eire in tears—
Och, ochone!
All hero as you are, and holy man of God!
To you the Saxons owe a many an hour of dread
In the land you have often trod—
Och, ochone!
’Tis altered is the time when your legions were astir,
When at Cullen you were hailed as conqueror and friend,
And you crossed Narrow-water near Birr,—
Och, ochone!
’Twas there I first beheld drawn up, in file and line,
The brilliant Irish hosts; they were bravest of the brave.
But alas, they scorned to combine—
Och, ochone!
I fought at Graine Og, when a thousand horsemen fell;
On the dark empurpled plain of Aughrim, too, I stood,
On the plain by Tubberdonny’s well—
Och, ochone!
Be my best blessing borne on the wings of the air;
We had card-playing there o’er our camp fires at night,
And the Word of Life, too, and prayer—
Och, ochone!
Your people! May ruin desolate you stone by stone!
Through you there’s many a gallant youth lies coffinless today
With the winds for mourners alone—
Och, ochone!
And saw the Saxons muster, clad in armour blinding bright:
Oh, rage withheld my hand, or gunsman and dragoon
Should have supped with Satan that night!—
Och, ochone!
Careered along this road, seven fleeting weeks ago,
With silver-hilted sword, with matchlock and with spear,
Who now, mavrone! lieth low—
Och, ochone!
I see a limping soldier, who battled and who bled
Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though now
The worthy is begging his bread—
Och, ochone!
His head it was spiked upon a halberd high;
His colours they were trampled: he had no chance of life
If the Lord God Himself stood by!—
Och, ochone!
For the ten valient heroes who dwelt nigh the Nore,
And my three blessed brothers; they left me and went
To the wars, and returned no more—
Och, ochone!
By Slaney the next, for we battled without rest;
The third was at Aughrim. O Eire! thy woe
Is a sword in my bleeding breast—
Och, ochone!
While the black Orange guns blazed and bellowed around!
And as volley followed volley, Colonel Mitchel inquired
Whether Lucan still stood his ground?—
Och, ochone!
He has memories that hell won’t permit him to forget,
And a sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil
Upon many an Aughrim yet!—
Och, ochone!
With the Burkes, and the Dukes, and the son of Royal James,
And Talbot, the captain, and Sarsfield above all,
The beloved of damsels and dames—
Och, ochone!