From the 'Deserted Village'
In all my wanderings round this world of care,In all my griefs—and God has given my share—I still had hopes my later hours to crown,Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;To husband out life's taper at the closeAnd keep the flame from wasting by repose;I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,I still had hopes, my long vexations past,Here to return—and die at home at last.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,In all my griefs—and God has given my share—I still had hopes my later hours to crown,Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;To husband out life's taper at the closeAnd keep the flame from wasting by repose;I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,I still had hopes, my long vexations past,Here to return—and die at home at last.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,In all my griefs—and God has given my share—I still had hopes my later hours to crown,Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;To husband out life's taper at the closeAnd keep the flame from wasting by repose;I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,I still had hopes, my long vexations past,Here to return—and die at home at last.
Oliver Goldsmith
From the 'Deserted Village'
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,And still where many a garden flower grows wild;There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,The village Preacher's modest mansion rose.A man he was to all the country dear,And passing rich with forty pounds a year;Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place;Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.His house was known to all the vagrant train,He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain;The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,And quite forgot their vices in their woe;Careless their merits or their faults to scan,He pity gave ere charity began.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,And still where many a garden flower grows wild;There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,The village Preacher's modest mansion rose.A man he was to all the country dear,And passing rich with forty pounds a year;Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place;Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.His house was known to all the vagrant train,He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain;The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,And quite forgot their vices in their woe;Careless their merits or their faults to scan,He pity gave ere charity began.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,And still where many a garden flower grows wild;There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,The village Preacher's modest mansion rose.A man he was to all the country dear,And passing rich with forty pounds a year;Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place;Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.His house was known to all the vagrant train,He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain;The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,And quite forgot their vices in their woe;Careless their merits or their faults to scan,He pity gave ere charity began.
Oliver Goldsmith
If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,Could, more than drinking, my cares compose,A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,And hope to-morrow would end my woes.But as in wailing there's nought availing,And Death unfailing will strike the blow,Then for that reason, and for a season,Let us be merry before we go!To joy a stranger, a wayworn ranger,In every danger my course I've run;Now hope all ending, and death befriending,His last aid lending, my cares are done;No more a rover, or hapless lover—My griefs are over—my glass runs low;Then for that reason, and for a season,Let us be merry before we go!
If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,Could, more than drinking, my cares compose,A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,And hope to-morrow would end my woes.But as in wailing there's nought availing,And Death unfailing will strike the blow,Then for that reason, and for a season,Let us be merry before we go!To joy a stranger, a wayworn ranger,In every danger my course I've run;Now hope all ending, and death befriending,His last aid lending, my cares are done;No more a rover, or hapless lover—My griefs are over—my glass runs low;Then for that reason, and for a season,Let us be merry before we go!
If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,Could, more than drinking, my cares compose,A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,And hope to-morrow would end my woes.
But as in wailing there's nought availing,And Death unfailing will strike the blow,Then for that reason, and for a season,Let us be merry before we go!
To joy a stranger, a wayworn ranger,In every danger my course I've run;Now hope all ending, and death befriending,His last aid lending, my cares are done;
No more a rover, or hapless lover—My griefs are over—my glass runs low;Then for that reason, and for a season,Let us be merry before we go!
John Philpot Curran
Thou canst not boast of Fortune's store,My love, while me they wealthy call:But I was glad to find thee poor,For with my heart I'd give thee all,And then the grateful youth shall own,I loved him for himself alone.But when his worth my hand shall gain,No word or look of mine shall showThat I the smallest thought retainOf what my bounty did bestow:Yet still his grateful heart shall own,I loved him for himself alone.
Thou canst not boast of Fortune's store,My love, while me they wealthy call:But I was glad to find thee poor,For with my heart I'd give thee all,And then the grateful youth shall own,I loved him for himself alone.But when his worth my hand shall gain,No word or look of mine shall showThat I the smallest thought retainOf what my bounty did bestow:Yet still his grateful heart shall own,I loved him for himself alone.
Thou canst not boast of Fortune's store,My love, while me they wealthy call:But I was glad to find thee poor,For with my heart I'd give thee all,And then the grateful youth shall own,I loved him for himself alone.
But when his worth my hand shall gain,No word or look of mine shall showThat I the smallest thought retainOf what my bounty did bestow:Yet still his grateful heart shall own,I loved him for himself alone.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
My love, still I think that I see her once more,But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore—My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new—So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir;Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her—So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!She sat at the door one cold afternoon,To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon,So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower,It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour:And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More.Bird of all birds that I love the best,Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest;For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More.
My love, still I think that I see her once more,But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore—My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new—So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir;Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her—So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!She sat at the door one cold afternoon,To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon,So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower,It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour:And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More.Bird of all birds that I love the best,Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest;For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More.
My love, still I think that I see her once more,But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore—My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!
Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new—So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!
She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir;Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her—So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!
She sat at the door one cold afternoon,To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon,So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More!
Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower,It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour:And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More.
Bird of all birds that I love the best,Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest;For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen,My Kathleen O'More.
James Nugent Reynolds
The groves of BlarneyThey look so charmingDown by the purlingOf sweet, silent brooks,Being banked with posiesThat spontaneous grow there,Planted in orderBy the sweet rock close.'Tis there's the daisyAnd the sweet carnation,The blooming pink,And the rose so fair,The daffydowndilly,Likewise the lily,All flowers that scentThe sweet, fragrant air.'Tis Lady JeffersThat owns this station;Like Alexander,Or Queen Helen fair.There's no commanderIn all the nation,For emulation,Can with her compare.Such walls surround herThat no nine-pounderCould dare to plunderHer place of strength;But Oliver CromwellHer he did pommell,And made a breachIn her battlement.There's gravel walks thereFor speculationAnd conversationIn sweet solitude.'Tis there the loverMay hear the dove, orThe gentle ploverIn the afternoon;And if a ladyWould be so engagingAs to walk alone inThose shady bowers,'Tis there the courtierHe may transport herInto some fort, orAll under ground.For 'tis there's a cave whereNo daylight enters,But cats and badgersAre for ever bred;Being mossed by nature,That makes it sweeterThan a coach-and-six orA feather bed.'Tis there the lake is,Well stored with perches,And comely eels inThe verdant mud;Beside the leeches,And groves of beeches,Standing in orderFor to guard the flood.There's statues gracingThis noble place in—All heathen godsAnd nymphs so fair;Bold Neptune, Plutarch,And Nicodemus,All standing nakedIn the open air.So now to finishThis brave narration,Which my poor geniiCould not entwine;But were I HomerOr Nebuchadnezzar,'Tis in every featureI would make it shine.
The groves of BlarneyThey look so charmingDown by the purlingOf sweet, silent brooks,Being banked with posiesThat spontaneous grow there,Planted in orderBy the sweet rock close.'Tis there's the daisyAnd the sweet carnation,The blooming pink,And the rose so fair,The daffydowndilly,Likewise the lily,All flowers that scentThe sweet, fragrant air.'Tis Lady JeffersThat owns this station;Like Alexander,Or Queen Helen fair.There's no commanderIn all the nation,For emulation,Can with her compare.Such walls surround herThat no nine-pounderCould dare to plunderHer place of strength;But Oliver CromwellHer he did pommell,And made a breachIn her battlement.There's gravel walks thereFor speculationAnd conversationIn sweet solitude.'Tis there the loverMay hear the dove, orThe gentle ploverIn the afternoon;And if a ladyWould be so engagingAs to walk alone inThose shady bowers,'Tis there the courtierHe may transport herInto some fort, orAll under ground.For 'tis there's a cave whereNo daylight enters,But cats and badgersAre for ever bred;Being mossed by nature,That makes it sweeterThan a coach-and-six orA feather bed.'Tis there the lake is,Well stored with perches,And comely eels inThe verdant mud;Beside the leeches,And groves of beeches,Standing in orderFor to guard the flood.There's statues gracingThis noble place in—All heathen godsAnd nymphs so fair;Bold Neptune, Plutarch,And Nicodemus,All standing nakedIn the open air.So now to finishThis brave narration,Which my poor geniiCould not entwine;But were I HomerOr Nebuchadnezzar,'Tis in every featureI would make it shine.
The groves of BlarneyThey look so charmingDown by the purlingOf sweet, silent brooks,Being banked with posiesThat spontaneous grow there,Planted in orderBy the sweet rock close.'Tis there's the daisyAnd the sweet carnation,The blooming pink,And the rose so fair,The daffydowndilly,Likewise the lily,All flowers that scentThe sweet, fragrant air.
'Tis Lady JeffersThat owns this station;Like Alexander,Or Queen Helen fair.There's no commanderIn all the nation,For emulation,Can with her compare.Such walls surround herThat no nine-pounderCould dare to plunderHer place of strength;But Oliver CromwellHer he did pommell,And made a breachIn her battlement.
There's gravel walks thereFor speculationAnd conversationIn sweet solitude.'Tis there the loverMay hear the dove, orThe gentle ploverIn the afternoon;And if a ladyWould be so engagingAs to walk alone inThose shady bowers,'Tis there the courtierHe may transport herInto some fort, orAll under ground.
For 'tis there's a cave whereNo daylight enters,But cats and badgersAre for ever bred;Being mossed by nature,That makes it sweeterThan a coach-and-six orA feather bed.'Tis there the lake is,Well stored with perches,And comely eels inThe verdant mud;Beside the leeches,And groves of beeches,Standing in orderFor to guard the flood.
There's statues gracingThis noble place in—All heathen godsAnd nymphs so fair;Bold Neptune, Plutarch,And Nicodemus,All standing nakedIn the open air.So now to finishThis brave narration,Which my poor geniiCould not entwine;But were I HomerOr Nebuchadnezzar,'Tis in every featureI would make it shine.
Richard Alfred Milliken
Oft in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shoneNow dimm'd and gone,The cheerful homes now broken!Then in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,Sad memory brings the lightOf other days around me.When I remember allThe friends so linked togetherI've seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed.Then in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
Oft in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shoneNow dimm'd and gone,The cheerful homes now broken!Then in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,Sad memory brings the lightOf other days around me.When I remember allThe friends so linked togetherI've seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed.Then in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
Oft in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shoneNow dimm'd and gone,The cheerful homes now broken!Then in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,Sad memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
When I remember allThe friends so linked togetherI've seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed.Then in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
Thomas Moore
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I flyTo the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of airTo revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky!Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hearWhen our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of soulsFaintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I flyTo the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of airTo revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky!Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hearWhen our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of soulsFaintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I flyTo the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of airTo revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hearWhen our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of soulsFaintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
Thomas Moore
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was done,When the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—But we left him alone in his glory.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was done,When the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—But we left him alone in his glory.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,When the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—But we left him alone in his glory.
Rev. Charles Wolfe
From the Irish
How hard is my fortune,And vain my repining!The strong rope of fateFor this young neck is twining.My strength is departed;My cheek sunk and sallow;While I languish in chains,In the gaol ofCluanmeala.No boy in the villageWas ever yet milder,I'd play with a child,And my sport would be wilder.I'd dance without tiringFrom morning till even,And the goal-ball I'd strikeTo the lightning of Heaven.At my bed-foot decaying,My hurlbat is lying,Through the boys of the villageMy goal-ball is flying;My horse 'mong the neighboursNeglected may fallow,—While I pine in my chains,In the gaol ofCluanmeala.Next Sunday the patronAt home will be keeping,And the young active hurlersThe field will be sweeping.With the dance of fair maidensThe evening they'll hallow,While this heart, once so gay,Shall be cold inCluanmeala.
How hard is my fortune,And vain my repining!The strong rope of fateFor this young neck is twining.My strength is departed;My cheek sunk and sallow;While I languish in chains,In the gaol ofCluanmeala.No boy in the villageWas ever yet milder,I'd play with a child,And my sport would be wilder.I'd dance without tiringFrom morning till even,And the goal-ball I'd strikeTo the lightning of Heaven.At my bed-foot decaying,My hurlbat is lying,Through the boys of the villageMy goal-ball is flying;My horse 'mong the neighboursNeglected may fallow,—While I pine in my chains,In the gaol ofCluanmeala.Next Sunday the patronAt home will be keeping,And the young active hurlersThe field will be sweeping.With the dance of fair maidensThe evening they'll hallow,While this heart, once so gay,Shall be cold inCluanmeala.
How hard is my fortune,And vain my repining!The strong rope of fateFor this young neck is twining.My strength is departed;My cheek sunk and sallow;While I languish in chains,In the gaol ofCluanmeala.
No boy in the villageWas ever yet milder,I'd play with a child,And my sport would be wilder.I'd dance without tiringFrom morning till even,And the goal-ball I'd strikeTo the lightning of Heaven.
At my bed-foot decaying,My hurlbat is lying,Through the boys of the villageMy goal-ball is flying;My horse 'mong the neighboursNeglected may fallow,—While I pine in my chains,In the gaol ofCluanmeala.
Next Sunday the patronAt home will be keeping,And the young active hurlersThe field will be sweeping.With the dance of fair maidensThe evening they'll hallow,While this heart, once so gay,Shall be cold inCluanmeala.
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan
From the Irish
O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen,That came not of stream or malt;—like the brewing of men.My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love.Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.She stretched forth her arms,—her mantle she flung to the wind,And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep,And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep;I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,—With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;—I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen,That came not of stream or malt;—like the brewing of men.My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love.Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.She stretched forth her arms,—her mantle she flung to the wind,And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep,And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep;I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,—With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;—I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen,That came not of stream or malt;—like the brewing of men.My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love.
Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.She stretched forth her arms,—her mantle she flung to the wind,And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.
O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep,And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep;I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,—With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.
'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;—I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan
From the Irish
The sun on IveraNo longer shines brightly,The voice of her musicNo longer is sprightly;No more to her maidensThe light dance is dear,Since the death of our darlingO'Sullivan Bear.Scully! thou false one,You basely betrayed him,In his strong hour of need,When thy right hand should aid him;He fed thee—he clad thee—You had all could delight thee:You left him—you sold him—May Heaven requite thee!Scully! may all kindsOf evil attend thee!On thy dark road of lifeMay no kind one befriend thee!May fevers long burn thee,And agues long freeze thee!May the strong hand of GodIn His red anger seize thee!Had he died calmly,I would not deplore him;Or if the wild strifeOf the sea-war closed o'er him:But with ropes round his white limbsThrough ocean to trail him,Like a fish after slaughter—'Tis therefore I wail him.Long may the curseOf his people pursue them;Scully, that sold him,And soldier that slew him!One glimpse of heaven's lightMay they see never!May the hearthstone of hellBe their best bed for ever!In the hole which the vile handsOf soldiers had made thee,Unhonour'd, unshrouded,And headless they laid thee;No sigh to regret thee,No eye to rain o'er thee,No dirge to lament thee,No friend to deplore thee!Dear head of my darling,How gory and pale,These aged eyes see thee,High spiked on their gaol!That cheek in the summer sunNe'er shall grow warm;Nor that eye e'er catch light,But the flash of the storm.A curse, blessed ocean,Is on thy green water,From the haven of CorkTo Ivera of slaughter:Since thy billows were dyedWith the red wounds of fearOf Muiertach Oge,Our O'Sullivan Bear!
The sun on IveraNo longer shines brightly,The voice of her musicNo longer is sprightly;No more to her maidensThe light dance is dear,Since the death of our darlingO'Sullivan Bear.Scully! thou false one,You basely betrayed him,In his strong hour of need,When thy right hand should aid him;He fed thee—he clad thee—You had all could delight thee:You left him—you sold him—May Heaven requite thee!Scully! may all kindsOf evil attend thee!On thy dark road of lifeMay no kind one befriend thee!May fevers long burn thee,And agues long freeze thee!May the strong hand of GodIn His red anger seize thee!Had he died calmly,I would not deplore him;Or if the wild strifeOf the sea-war closed o'er him:But with ropes round his white limbsThrough ocean to trail him,Like a fish after slaughter—'Tis therefore I wail him.Long may the curseOf his people pursue them;Scully, that sold him,And soldier that slew him!One glimpse of heaven's lightMay they see never!May the hearthstone of hellBe their best bed for ever!In the hole which the vile handsOf soldiers had made thee,Unhonour'd, unshrouded,And headless they laid thee;No sigh to regret thee,No eye to rain o'er thee,No dirge to lament thee,No friend to deplore thee!Dear head of my darling,How gory and pale,These aged eyes see thee,High spiked on their gaol!That cheek in the summer sunNe'er shall grow warm;Nor that eye e'er catch light,But the flash of the storm.A curse, blessed ocean,Is on thy green water,From the haven of CorkTo Ivera of slaughter:Since thy billows were dyedWith the red wounds of fearOf Muiertach Oge,Our O'Sullivan Bear!
The sun on IveraNo longer shines brightly,The voice of her musicNo longer is sprightly;No more to her maidensThe light dance is dear,Since the death of our darlingO'Sullivan Bear.
Scully! thou false one,You basely betrayed him,In his strong hour of need,When thy right hand should aid him;He fed thee—he clad thee—You had all could delight thee:You left him—you sold him—May Heaven requite thee!
Scully! may all kindsOf evil attend thee!On thy dark road of lifeMay no kind one befriend thee!May fevers long burn thee,And agues long freeze thee!May the strong hand of GodIn His red anger seize thee!
Had he died calmly,I would not deplore him;Or if the wild strifeOf the sea-war closed o'er him:But with ropes round his white limbsThrough ocean to trail him,Like a fish after slaughter—'Tis therefore I wail him.
Long may the curseOf his people pursue them;Scully, that sold him,And soldier that slew him!One glimpse of heaven's lightMay they see never!May the hearthstone of hellBe their best bed for ever!
In the hole which the vile handsOf soldiers had made thee,Unhonour'd, unshrouded,And headless they laid thee;No sigh to regret thee,No eye to rain o'er thee,No dirge to lament thee,No friend to deplore thee!
Dear head of my darling,How gory and pale,These aged eyes see thee,High spiked on their gaol!That cheek in the summer sunNe'er shall grow warm;Nor that eye e'er catch light,But the flash of the storm.
A curse, blessed ocean,Is on thy green water,From the haven of CorkTo Ivera of slaughter:Since thy billows were dyedWith the red wounds of fearOf Muiertach Oge,Our O'Sullivan Bear!
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan
Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair;Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbersBreathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teemingTo wind round the willow banks that lure him from above;O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming,I too could glide to the bower of my love!Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her,To her lost mate's call in the forests far away.Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest,Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me,Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairestBleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee!
Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair;Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbersBreathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teemingTo wind round the willow banks that lure him from above;O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming,I too could glide to the bower of my love!Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her,To her lost mate's call in the forests far away.Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest,Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me,Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairestBleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee!
Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair;Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbersBreathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.
Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teemingTo wind round the willow banks that lure him from above;O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming,I too could glide to the bower of my love!
Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her,To her lost mate's call in the forests far away.
Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest,Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me,Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairestBleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee!
George Darley
When Pat came over the hill,His colleen fair to see,His whistle low, but shrill,The signal was to be;(Pat whistles.)'Mary,' the mother said,'Some one is whistling sure;'Says Mary, '‘Tis only the windIs whistling through the door.'(Pat whistles a bit of a popular air.)'I've lived a long time, Mary,In this wide world, my dear,But a door to whistle likethatI never yet did hear.''But, mother, you know the fiddleHangs close beside the chink,And the wind upon the stringsIs playing the tune I think.'(The pig grunts.)'Mary, I hear the pig,Unaisy in his mind.''But, mother, you know, they sayThe pigs can see the wind.''That's true enoughin the day,But I think you may remark,That pigs no more nor weCan see anything in the dark.'(The dog barks.)'The dog is barking now,The fiddle can't play the tune.''But, mother, the dogs will barkWhenever they see the moon.''But how could he see the moon,When, you know, the dog is blind?Blind dogs won't bark at the moon,Nor fiddles be played by the wind.'I'm not such a fool as you think,I know very well it is Pat:—Shut your mouth, you whistlin' thief,And go along home out o' that!'And you be off to your bed,Don't play upon me your jeers;For though I have lost my eyes,I haven't lost my ears!'
When Pat came over the hill,His colleen fair to see,His whistle low, but shrill,The signal was to be;(Pat whistles.)'Mary,' the mother said,'Some one is whistling sure;'Says Mary, '‘Tis only the windIs whistling through the door.'(Pat whistles a bit of a popular air.)'I've lived a long time, Mary,In this wide world, my dear,But a door to whistle likethatI never yet did hear.''But, mother, you know the fiddleHangs close beside the chink,And the wind upon the stringsIs playing the tune I think.'(The pig grunts.)'Mary, I hear the pig,Unaisy in his mind.''But, mother, you know, they sayThe pigs can see the wind.''That's true enoughin the day,But I think you may remark,That pigs no more nor weCan see anything in the dark.'(The dog barks.)'The dog is barking now,The fiddle can't play the tune.''But, mother, the dogs will barkWhenever they see the moon.''But how could he see the moon,When, you know, the dog is blind?Blind dogs won't bark at the moon,Nor fiddles be played by the wind.'I'm not such a fool as you think,I know very well it is Pat:—Shut your mouth, you whistlin' thief,And go along home out o' that!'And you be off to your bed,Don't play upon me your jeers;For though I have lost my eyes,I haven't lost my ears!'
When Pat came over the hill,His colleen fair to see,His whistle low, but shrill,The signal was to be;
(Pat whistles.)
'Mary,' the mother said,'Some one is whistling sure;'Says Mary, '‘Tis only the windIs whistling through the door.'
(Pat whistles a bit of a popular air.)
'I've lived a long time, Mary,In this wide world, my dear,But a door to whistle likethatI never yet did hear.'
'But, mother, you know the fiddleHangs close beside the chink,And the wind upon the stringsIs playing the tune I think.'
(The pig grunts.)
'Mary, I hear the pig,Unaisy in his mind.''But, mother, you know, they sayThe pigs can see the wind.'
'That's true enoughin the day,But I think you may remark,That pigs no more nor weCan see anything in the dark.'
(The dog barks.)
'The dog is barking now,The fiddle can't play the tune.''But, mother, the dogs will barkWhenever they see the moon.'
'But how could he see the moon,When, you know, the dog is blind?Blind dogs won't bark at the moon,Nor fiddles be played by the wind.
'I'm not such a fool as you think,I know very well it is Pat:—Shut your mouth, you whistlin' thief,And go along home out o' that!
'And you be off to your bed,Don't play upon me your jeers;For though I have lost my eyes,I haven't lost my ears!'
Samuel Lover
Am I the slave they say,Soggarth aroon?Since you did show the way,Soggarth aroon,Theirslave no more to be,While they would work with meOld Ireland's slavery,Soggarth aroon.Why not her poorest man,Soggarth aroon,Try and do all he can,Soggarth aroon,Her commands to fulfilOf his own heart and will,Side by side with you stillSoggarth aroon?Loyal and brave to you,Soggarth aroon,Yet be not slave to you,Soggarth aroon,Nor, out of fear to you—Stand up so near to you—Och! out of fear toyou,Soggarth aroon!Who, in the winter's night,Soggarth aroon,When the cold blast did bite,Soggarth aroon,Came to my cabin-door,And, on my earthen-floor,Knelt by me, sick and poor,Soggarth aroon?Who, on the marriage day,Soggarth aroon,Made the poor cabin gay,Soggarth aroon?—And did both laugh and sing,Making our hearts to ring,At the poor christening,Soggarth aroon?Who, as friend only met,Soggarth aroon,Never did flout me yet,Soggarth aroon?And when my heart was dim,Gave, while his eye did brim,What I should give to him,Soggarth aroon?Och! you, and only you,Soggarth aroon!And for this I was true to you,Soggarth aroon,In love they'll never shake,When for old Ireland's sake,We a true part did take,Soggarth aroon!
Am I the slave they say,Soggarth aroon?Since you did show the way,Soggarth aroon,Theirslave no more to be,While they would work with meOld Ireland's slavery,Soggarth aroon.Why not her poorest man,Soggarth aroon,Try and do all he can,Soggarth aroon,Her commands to fulfilOf his own heart and will,Side by side with you stillSoggarth aroon?Loyal and brave to you,Soggarth aroon,Yet be not slave to you,Soggarth aroon,Nor, out of fear to you—Stand up so near to you—Och! out of fear toyou,Soggarth aroon!Who, in the winter's night,Soggarth aroon,When the cold blast did bite,Soggarth aroon,Came to my cabin-door,And, on my earthen-floor,Knelt by me, sick and poor,Soggarth aroon?Who, on the marriage day,Soggarth aroon,Made the poor cabin gay,Soggarth aroon?—And did both laugh and sing,Making our hearts to ring,At the poor christening,Soggarth aroon?Who, as friend only met,Soggarth aroon,Never did flout me yet,Soggarth aroon?And when my heart was dim,Gave, while his eye did brim,What I should give to him,Soggarth aroon?Och! you, and only you,Soggarth aroon!And for this I was true to you,Soggarth aroon,In love they'll never shake,When for old Ireland's sake,We a true part did take,Soggarth aroon!
Am I the slave they say,Soggarth aroon?Since you did show the way,Soggarth aroon,Theirslave no more to be,While they would work with meOld Ireland's slavery,Soggarth aroon.
Why not her poorest man,Soggarth aroon,Try and do all he can,Soggarth aroon,Her commands to fulfilOf his own heart and will,Side by side with you stillSoggarth aroon?
Loyal and brave to you,Soggarth aroon,Yet be not slave to you,Soggarth aroon,Nor, out of fear to you—Stand up so near to you—Och! out of fear toyou,Soggarth aroon!
Who, in the winter's night,Soggarth aroon,When the cold blast did bite,Soggarth aroon,Came to my cabin-door,And, on my earthen-floor,Knelt by me, sick and poor,Soggarth aroon?
Who, on the marriage day,Soggarth aroon,Made the poor cabin gay,Soggarth aroon?—And did both laugh and sing,Making our hearts to ring,At the poor christening,Soggarth aroon?
Who, as friend only met,Soggarth aroon,Never did flout me yet,Soggarth aroon?And when my heart was dim,Gave, while his eye did brim,What I should give to him,Soggarth aroon?
Och! you, and only you,Soggarth aroon!And for this I was true to you,Soggarth aroon,In love they'll never shake,When for old Ireland's sake,We a true part did take,Soggarth aroon!
John Banim
From the Irish
O my Dark Rosaleen,Do not sigh, do not weep!The priests are on the ocean green.They march along the deep.There's wine from the royal Pope,Upon the ocean green;And Spanish ale shall give you hope,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,Shall give you health, and help, and hope,My Dark Rosaleen!Over hills, and through dales,Have I roamed for your sake;All yesterday I sailed with sailsOn river and on lake,The Erne, at its highest flood,I dashed across unseen,For there was lightning in my blood,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!O there was lightning in my blood,Red lightning lightened through my blood,My Dark Rosaleen!All day long in unrestTo and fro do I move,The very heart within my breastIs wasted for you, Love!The heart in my bosom faintsTo think of you, my queen!My life of life, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!To hear your sweet and sad complaints,My life, my love, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!Woe and pain, pain and woe,Are my lot night and noon;To see your bright face clouded so,Like to the mournful moon.But yet will I rear your throneAgain in golden sheen:'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!'Tis you shall have the golden throne,'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!Over dews, over sands,Will I fly for your weal:Your holy, delicate white handsShall girdle me with steel.At home, in your emerald bowers,From morning's dawn till e'en,You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!You'll think of me through daylight's hours,My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!I could scale the blue air,I could plough the high hills,O, I could kneel all night in prayer,To heal your many ills.And one beamy smile from youWould float like light betweenMy toils and me, my own, my true,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!Would give me life and soul anew,A second life, a soul anew,My Dark Rosaleen!O! the Erne shall run redWith redundance of blood,The earth shall rock beneath our tread,And flames wrap hill and wood,And gun-peal, and slogan cry,Wake many a glen serene,Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!The Judgment Hour must first be nighEre you can fade, ere you can die,My Dark Rosaleen!
O my Dark Rosaleen,Do not sigh, do not weep!The priests are on the ocean green.They march along the deep.There's wine from the royal Pope,Upon the ocean green;And Spanish ale shall give you hope,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,Shall give you health, and help, and hope,My Dark Rosaleen!Over hills, and through dales,Have I roamed for your sake;All yesterday I sailed with sailsOn river and on lake,The Erne, at its highest flood,I dashed across unseen,For there was lightning in my blood,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!O there was lightning in my blood,Red lightning lightened through my blood,My Dark Rosaleen!All day long in unrestTo and fro do I move,The very heart within my breastIs wasted for you, Love!The heart in my bosom faintsTo think of you, my queen!My life of life, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!To hear your sweet and sad complaints,My life, my love, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!Woe and pain, pain and woe,Are my lot night and noon;To see your bright face clouded so,Like to the mournful moon.But yet will I rear your throneAgain in golden sheen:'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!'Tis you shall have the golden throne,'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!Over dews, over sands,Will I fly for your weal:Your holy, delicate white handsShall girdle me with steel.At home, in your emerald bowers,From morning's dawn till e'en,You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!You'll think of me through daylight's hours,My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!I could scale the blue air,I could plough the high hills,O, I could kneel all night in prayer,To heal your many ills.And one beamy smile from youWould float like light betweenMy toils and me, my own, my true,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!Would give me life and soul anew,A second life, a soul anew,My Dark Rosaleen!O! the Erne shall run redWith redundance of blood,The earth shall rock beneath our tread,And flames wrap hill and wood,And gun-peal, and slogan cry,Wake many a glen serene,Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!The Judgment Hour must first be nighEre you can fade, ere you can die,My Dark Rosaleen!
O my Dark Rosaleen,Do not sigh, do not weep!The priests are on the ocean green.They march along the deep.There's wine from the royal Pope,Upon the ocean green;And Spanish ale shall give you hope,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,Shall give you health, and help, and hope,My Dark Rosaleen!
Over hills, and through dales,Have I roamed for your sake;All yesterday I sailed with sailsOn river and on lake,The Erne, at its highest flood,I dashed across unseen,For there was lightning in my blood,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!O there was lightning in my blood,Red lightning lightened through my blood,My Dark Rosaleen!
All day long in unrestTo and fro do I move,The very heart within my breastIs wasted for you, Love!The heart in my bosom faintsTo think of you, my queen!My life of life, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!To hear your sweet and sad complaints,My life, my love, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,Are my lot night and noon;To see your bright face clouded so,Like to the mournful moon.But yet will I rear your throneAgain in golden sheen:'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!'Tis you shall have the golden throne,'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!
Over dews, over sands,Will I fly for your weal:Your holy, delicate white handsShall girdle me with steel.At home, in your emerald bowers,From morning's dawn till e'en,You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!You'll think of me through daylight's hours,My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!
I could scale the blue air,I could plough the high hills,O, I could kneel all night in prayer,To heal your many ills.And one beamy smile from youWould float like light betweenMy toils and me, my own, my true,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!Would give me life and soul anew,A second life, a soul anew,My Dark Rosaleen!
O! the Erne shall run redWith redundance of blood,The earth shall rock beneath our tread,And flames wrap hill and wood,And gun-peal, and slogan cry,Wake many a glen serene,Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!The Judgment Hour must first be nighEre you can fade, ere you can die,My Dark Rosaleen!
James Clarence Mangan
From the Irish
O woman of the Piercing Wail,Who mournest o'er yon mound of clayWith sigh and groan,Would God thou wert among the Gael!Thou wouldst not then from day to dayWeep thus alone.'Twere long before, around a graveIn green Tyrconnell, one could findThis loneliness;Near where Beann-Boirche's banners waveSuch grief as thine could ne'er have pinedCompanionless.Beside the wave in Donegal,In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,Or Killillee.Or where the sunny waters fallAt Assaroe, near Erna's shore,This could not be.On Derry's plains—in rich Drumclieff—Throughout Armagh the Great, renownedIn olden years,No day could pass but woman's griefWould rain upon the burial-groundFresh floods of tears!O, no!—from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,From high Dunluce's castle-walls,From Lissadill,Would flock alike both rich and poor,One wail would rise from Cruachan's hallsTo Tara's hill;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 comeAnd swell thy strains!O, horses' hoofs would trample downThe Mount whereon the martyr-saintWas crucified.From glen and hill, from plain and town,One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,Would echo wide.There would not soon be found, I ween,One foot of ground among those bandsFor museful thought,So many shriekers of thekeenWould cry aloud and clap their hands,All woe distraught!Two princes of the line of ConnSleep in their cells of clay besideO'Donnell Roe;Three royal youths, alas! are gone,Who lived for Erin's weal, but diedFor Erin's woe;Ah! could the men of Ireland readThe names these noteless burial-stonesDisplay to view,Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,Their tears gush forth again, their groansResound anew!The youths whose relics moulder hereWere sprung from Hugh, high Prince and LordOf Aileach's lands;Thy noble brothers, justly dear,Thy nephew, long to be deploredBy Ulster's bands.Theirs were not souls wherein dull TimeCould domicile Decay or houseDecrepitude!They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime,Ere years had power to dim their browsOr chill their blood.And who can marvel o'er thy grief,Or who can blame thy flowing tears,That knows their source?O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,Cut off amid his vernal years,Lies here a corseBeside his brother Cathbar, whomTirconnell of the Helmets mournsIn deep despair—For valour, truth, and comely bloom,For all that greatens and adornsA peerless pair.O, had these twain, and he, the third,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 onThe field their breath,O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,There would not be a town or clanFrom shore to sea,But would with shrieks bewail the slain,Or chant aloud the exultingrannOf Jubilee!When high the shout of battle rose,On fields where Freedom's torch still burnedThrough Erin's gloom,If one, if barely one of thoseWere slain, all Ulster would have mournedThe hero's doom!If at Athboy, where hosts of braveUlidian horsemen sank beneathThe shock of spears,Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave,Long must the North have wept his deathWith heart-wrung tears!If on the day of Ballach-myreThe Lord of Mourne had met thus young,A warrior's fate,In vain would such as thou desireTo mourn, alone, the champion sprungFrom Niall the Great!No marvel this—for all the dead,Heaped on the field, pile over pile,At Mullach-brack,Were scarce anericfor his head,If death had stayed his footsteps whileOn victory's track!If on the Day of HostagesThe fruit had from the parent boughBeen rudely tornIn sight of Munster's bands—Mac-Nee's—Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,Could ill have borne.If on the day of Ballach-boySome arm had laid, by foul surprise,The chieftain low,Even our victorious shout of joyWould soon give place to rueful criesAnd groans of woe!If on the day the Saxon hostWere forced to fly—a day so greatFor Ashanee—The Chief had been untimely lost,Our conquering troops should moderateTheir mirthful glee.There would not lack on Lifford's day,From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,From Limerick's towers,A marshalled file, a long arrayOf mourners to bedew the soilWith tears in showers!If on the day a sterner fateCompelled his flight from Athenree,His blood had flowed,What numbers all disconsolate,Would come unasked, and share with theeAffliction's load!If Derry's crimson field had seenHis life-blood offered up, though 'twereOn Victory's shrine,A thousand cries would swell thekeen,A thousand voices of despairWould echo thine.O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarmThat bloody night on Fergus' banksBut slain our chief,When rose his camp in wild alarm—How would the triumph of his ranksBe dashed with grief!How would the troops of Murbach mournIf on the Curlew Mountains' day,Which England rued,Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,By shedding there, amid the fray,Their prince's blood!Red would have been our warriors' eyesHad Roderick found on Sligo fieldA 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 HughHad met the death he oft had dealtAmong the foe;But, had our Roderick fallen too,All Erin must, alas! have feltThe deadly blow!What do I say? Ah, woe is me!Already we bewail in vainTheir fatal fall!And Erin, once the Great and Free,Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,And iron thrall!Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dryThine overflowing eyes, and turnThy heart aside;For Adam's race is born to die,And sternly the sepulchral urnMocks human pride!Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,Nor place thy trust in arm of clay—But on thy kneesUplift thy soul to God alone,For all things go their destined wayAs He decrees.Embrace the faithful Crucifix,And seek the path of pain and prayerThy Saviour trod!Nor let thy spirit intermixWith earthly hope and worldly careIts groans to God!And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose waysAre far above our feeble mindsTo understand,Sustain us in these doleful days,And render light the chain that bindsOur fallen land!Look down upon our dreary state,And through the ages that may stillRoll sadly on,Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,And shield at least from darker illThe blood of Conn!
O woman of the Piercing Wail,Who mournest o'er yon mound of clayWith sigh and groan,Would God thou wert among the Gael!Thou wouldst not then from day to dayWeep thus alone.'Twere long before, around a graveIn green Tyrconnell, one could findThis loneliness;Near where Beann-Boirche's banners waveSuch grief as thine could ne'er have pinedCompanionless.Beside the wave in Donegal,In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,Or Killillee.Or where the sunny waters fallAt Assaroe, near Erna's shore,This could not be.On Derry's plains—in rich Drumclieff—Throughout Armagh the Great, renownedIn olden years,No day could pass but woman's griefWould rain upon the burial-groundFresh floods of tears!O, no!—from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,From high Dunluce's castle-walls,From Lissadill,Would flock alike both rich and poor,One wail would rise from Cruachan's hallsTo Tara's hill;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 comeAnd swell thy strains!O, horses' hoofs would trample downThe Mount whereon the martyr-saintWas crucified.From glen and hill, from plain and town,One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,Would echo wide.There would not soon be found, I ween,One foot of ground among those bandsFor museful thought,So many shriekers of thekeenWould cry aloud and clap their hands,All woe distraught!Two princes of the line of ConnSleep in their cells of clay besideO'Donnell Roe;Three royal youths, alas! are gone,Who lived for Erin's weal, but diedFor Erin's woe;Ah! could the men of Ireland readThe names these noteless burial-stonesDisplay to view,Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,Their tears gush forth again, their groansResound anew!The youths whose relics moulder hereWere sprung from Hugh, high Prince and LordOf Aileach's lands;Thy noble brothers, justly dear,Thy nephew, long to be deploredBy Ulster's bands.Theirs were not souls wherein dull TimeCould domicile Decay or houseDecrepitude!They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime,Ere years had power to dim their browsOr chill their blood.And who can marvel o'er thy grief,Or who can blame thy flowing tears,That knows their source?O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,Cut off amid his vernal years,Lies here a corseBeside his brother Cathbar, whomTirconnell of the Helmets mournsIn deep despair—For valour, truth, and comely bloom,For all that greatens and adornsA peerless pair.O, had these twain, and he, the third,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 onThe field their breath,O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,There would not be a town or clanFrom shore to sea,But would with shrieks bewail the slain,Or chant aloud the exultingrannOf Jubilee!When high the shout of battle rose,On fields where Freedom's torch still burnedThrough Erin's gloom,If one, if barely one of thoseWere slain, all Ulster would have mournedThe hero's doom!If at Athboy, where hosts of braveUlidian horsemen sank beneathThe shock of spears,Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave,Long must the North have wept his deathWith heart-wrung tears!If on the day of Ballach-myreThe Lord of Mourne had met thus young,A warrior's fate,In vain would such as thou desireTo mourn, alone, the champion sprungFrom Niall the Great!No marvel this—for all the dead,Heaped on the field, pile over pile,At Mullach-brack,Were scarce anericfor his head,If death had stayed his footsteps whileOn victory's track!If on the Day of HostagesThe fruit had from the parent boughBeen rudely tornIn sight of Munster's bands—Mac-Nee's—Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,Could ill have borne.If on the day of Ballach-boySome arm had laid, by foul surprise,The chieftain low,Even our victorious shout of joyWould soon give place to rueful criesAnd groans of woe!If on the day the Saxon hostWere forced to fly—a day so greatFor Ashanee—The Chief had been untimely lost,Our conquering troops should moderateTheir mirthful glee.There would not lack on Lifford's day,From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,From Limerick's towers,A marshalled file, a long arrayOf mourners to bedew the soilWith tears in showers!If on the day a sterner fateCompelled his flight from Athenree,His blood had flowed,What numbers all disconsolate,Would come unasked, and share with theeAffliction's load!If Derry's crimson field had seenHis life-blood offered up, though 'twereOn Victory's shrine,A thousand cries would swell thekeen,A thousand voices of despairWould echo thine.O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarmThat bloody night on Fergus' banksBut slain our chief,When rose his camp in wild alarm—How would the triumph of his ranksBe dashed with grief!How would the troops of Murbach mournIf on the Curlew Mountains' day,Which England rued,Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,By shedding there, amid the fray,Their prince's blood!Red would have been our warriors' eyesHad Roderick found on Sligo fieldA 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 HughHad met the death he oft had dealtAmong the foe;But, had our Roderick fallen too,All Erin must, alas! have feltThe deadly blow!What do I say? Ah, woe is me!Already we bewail in vainTheir fatal fall!And Erin, once the Great and Free,Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,And iron thrall!Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dryThine overflowing eyes, and turnThy heart aside;For Adam's race is born to die,And sternly the sepulchral urnMocks human pride!Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,Nor place thy trust in arm of clay—But on thy kneesUplift thy soul to God alone,For all things go their destined wayAs He decrees.Embrace the faithful Crucifix,And seek the path of pain and prayerThy Saviour trod!Nor let thy spirit intermixWith earthly hope and worldly careIts groans to God!And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose waysAre far above our feeble mindsTo understand,Sustain us in these doleful days,And render light the chain that bindsOur fallen land!Look down upon our dreary state,And through the ages that may stillRoll sadly on,Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,And shield at least from darker illThe blood of Conn!
O woman of the Piercing Wail,Who mournest o'er yon mound of clayWith sigh and groan,Would God thou wert among the Gael!Thou wouldst not then from day to dayWeep thus alone.'Twere long before, around a graveIn green Tyrconnell, one could findThis loneliness;Near where Beann-Boirche's banners waveSuch grief as thine could ne'er have pinedCompanionless.
Beside the wave in Donegal,In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,Or Killillee.Or where the sunny waters fallAt Assaroe, near Erna's shore,This could not be.On Derry's plains—in rich Drumclieff—Throughout Armagh the Great, renownedIn olden years,No day could pass but woman's griefWould rain upon the burial-groundFresh floods of tears!
O, no!—from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,From high Dunluce's castle-walls,From Lissadill,Would flock alike both rich and poor,One wail would rise from Cruachan's hallsTo Tara's hill;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 comeAnd swell thy strains!
O, horses' hoofs would trample downThe Mount whereon the martyr-saintWas crucified.From glen and hill, from plain and town,One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,Would echo wide.There would not soon be found, I ween,One foot of ground among those bandsFor museful thought,So many shriekers of thekeenWould cry aloud and clap their hands,All woe distraught!
Two princes of the line of ConnSleep in their cells of clay besideO'Donnell Roe;Three royal youths, alas! are gone,Who lived for Erin's weal, but diedFor Erin's woe;Ah! could the men of Ireland readThe names these noteless burial-stonesDisplay to view,Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,Their tears gush forth again, their groansResound anew!
The youths whose relics moulder hereWere sprung from Hugh, high Prince and LordOf Aileach's lands;Thy noble brothers, justly dear,Thy nephew, long to be deploredBy Ulster's bands.Theirs were not souls wherein dull TimeCould domicile Decay or houseDecrepitude!They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime,Ere years had power to dim their browsOr chill their blood.
And who can marvel o'er thy grief,Or who can blame thy flowing tears,That knows their source?O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,Cut off amid his vernal years,Lies here a corseBeside his brother Cathbar, whomTirconnell of the Helmets mournsIn deep despair—For valour, truth, and comely bloom,For all that greatens and adornsA peerless pair.
O, had these twain, and he, the third,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 onThe field their breath,O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,There would not be a town or clanFrom shore to sea,But would with shrieks bewail the slain,Or chant aloud the exultingrannOf Jubilee!
When high the shout of battle rose,On fields where Freedom's torch still burnedThrough Erin's gloom,If one, if barely one of thoseWere slain, all Ulster would have mournedThe hero's doom!If at Athboy, where hosts of braveUlidian horsemen sank beneathThe shock of spears,Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave,Long must the North have wept his deathWith heart-wrung tears!
If on the day of Ballach-myreThe Lord of Mourne had met thus young,A warrior's fate,In vain would such as thou desireTo mourn, alone, the champion sprungFrom Niall the Great!No marvel this—for all the dead,Heaped on the field, pile over pile,At Mullach-brack,Were scarce anericfor his head,If death had stayed his footsteps whileOn victory's track!
If on the Day of HostagesThe fruit had from the parent boughBeen rudely tornIn sight of Munster's bands—Mac-Nee's—Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,Could ill have borne.If on the day of Ballach-boySome arm had laid, by foul surprise,The chieftain low,Even our victorious shout of joyWould soon give place to rueful criesAnd groans of woe!
If on the day the Saxon hostWere forced to fly—a day so greatFor Ashanee—The Chief had been untimely lost,Our conquering troops should moderateTheir mirthful glee.There would not lack on Lifford's day,From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,From Limerick's towers,A marshalled file, a long arrayOf mourners to bedew the soilWith tears in showers!
If on the day a sterner fateCompelled his flight from Athenree,His blood had flowed,What numbers all disconsolate,Would come unasked, and share with theeAffliction's load!If Derry's crimson field had seenHis life-blood offered up, though 'twereOn Victory's shrine,A thousand cries would swell thekeen,A thousand voices of despairWould echo thine.
O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarmThat bloody night on Fergus' banksBut slain our chief,When rose his camp in wild alarm—How would the triumph of his ranksBe dashed with grief!How would the troops of Murbach mournIf on the Curlew Mountains' day,Which England rued,Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,By shedding there, amid the fray,Their prince's blood!
Red would have been our warriors' eyesHad Roderick found on Sligo fieldA 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 HughHad met the death he oft had dealtAmong the foe;But, had our Roderick fallen too,All Erin must, alas! have feltThe deadly blow!
What do I say? Ah, woe is me!Already we bewail in vainTheir fatal fall!And Erin, once the Great and Free,Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,And iron thrall!Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dryThine overflowing eyes, and turnThy heart aside;For Adam's race is born to die,And sternly the sepulchral urnMocks human pride!
Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,Nor place thy trust in arm of clay—But on thy kneesUplift thy soul to God alone,For all things go their destined wayAs He decrees.Embrace the faithful Crucifix,And seek the path of pain and prayerThy Saviour trod!Nor let thy spirit intermixWith earthly hope and worldly careIts groans to God!
And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose waysAre far above our feeble mindsTo understand,Sustain us in these doleful days,And render light the chain that bindsOur fallen land!Look down upon our dreary state,And through the ages that may stillRoll sadly on,Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,And shield at least from darker illThe blood of Conn!
James Clarence Mangan