What numbers all disconsolate,

Would come unasked, and share with thee
Affliction's load!

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

Would echo thine!

Oh, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm
That bloody night on Fergus' banks
But slain our chief,

When rose his camp in wild alarm—
How would the triumphs of his ranks
Be dashed with grief!

How would the troops of Murbach mourn
If 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' eyes
Had Roderick found on Sligo's field
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
Had met the death he oft had dealt

Among the foe;

LAMENT.

But, had our Roderick fallen too,
All Erin must, alas, have felt
The deadly blow!

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
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,
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

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
Thy Saviour trod !

Nor let thy spirit intermix

With earthly hope and worldly care
Its groans to God!

And thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways

Are far above our feeble minds

To understand,

147

Sustain us in these doleful days,
And render light the chain that binds
Our fallen land!

Look down upon our dreary state,
And through the ages that may still
Roll sadly on,

Watch thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
And shield at least from darker ill

The blood of Conn!

OWEN WARD.

(Translated by Mangan).

CLARAGH'S LAMENT.

THE tears are ever in my wasted eye,
My heart is crushed, and my thoughts are sad;
For the son of chivalry* was forced to fly,
And no tidings come from the soldier lad.
Chorus: . My heart it danced when he was near,
My hero! my Cæsar! my Chevalier !

But while he wanders o'er the sea
Joy can never be joy to me.

Silent and sad pines the lone cuckoo,
Our chieftains hang o'er the grave of joy;
Their tears fall heavy as the summer's dew
For the lord of their hearts-the banished boy.

Mute are the minstrels that sang of him,
The harp forgets its thrilling tone;
The brightest eyes of the land are dim,
For the pride of their aching sight is gone.

*The Young Pretender.

CLARAGH'S LAMENT.

The sun refused to lend his light,
And clouds obscured the face of day;
The tiger's whelps preyed day and night,
For the lion of the forest was far away.

The gallant, graceful, young Chevalier,
Whose look is bonny as his heart is gay;
His sword in battle flashes death and fear,
While he hews through falling foes his way.

O'er his blushing cheeks his blue eyes shine
Like dewdrops glitt'ring on the rose's leaf;
Mars and Cupid all in him combine,
The blooming lover and the godlike chief.

His curling locks in wavy grace,
Like beams on youthful Phoebus' brow,
Flit wild and golden o'er his speaking face,
And down his ivory shoulders flow.

Like Angus is he in his youthful days,
Or MacCein, whose deeds all Erin knows;
MacDary's chiefs, of deathless praise,
Who hung like fate on their routed foes.

Like Connall the besieger, pride of his race;
Or Fergus, son of a glorious sire ;

149

Or blameless Connor, son of courteous Nais,
The chief of the Red Branch-Lord of the Lyre.

The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale,
Nor the cry of the hounds in the nutty grove,
Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale,
Since far-far away is the youth of our love.

The name of my darling none must declare,
Though his fame be like sunshine from shore to shore;
But, oh, may Heaven-Heaven hear my prayer!
And waft the hero to my arms once more.

Chorus: My heart-it danced when he was near, Ah! now my woe is the young Chevalier, 'Tis a pang that solace ne'er can know, That he should be banish'd by a rightless foe.

JOHN MACDONNELL.

(From Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy.')

OLD ERIN IN THE SEA.

WHO sitteth cold, a beggar old,

Before the prosperous lands,

With outstretched palms that asketh alms
From charitable hands!

Feeble and lone she maketh moan

A stricken one is she,

That deep and long hath suffered wrong,

Old Erin in the sea!

How art thou lost, how hardly crost,

Land of the reverend head!

And, dismal Fate, how harsh thy hate,

That gives her lack of bread!

Though broad her fields, and rich their yields,

From Liffey to the Lee,

Her grain but grows to flesh the foes

Of Erin in the sea!

'Tis but the ban of ruthless man

That works thy wretchedness;

What nature bears with thee she shares,
And genial seasons bless.