Who in Erin's cause would stand, On the mountain bare and steep Snatching short but pleasant sleep, Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie Swooping on the Saxon quarry. What although you've failed to keep Want of conduct lost the town, Broke the white-walled castle down, Moira lost, and old Taltin, And let the conquering stranger in. "T was the want of right command, Not the lack of heart or hand, Left your hills and plains to-day 'Neath the strong Clan Saxon's sway. Ah! had Heaven never sent Woe is me, 't is God's decree Strangers have the victory! Irishmen may now be found Outlaws upon Irish ground. Like a wild beast in his den Lies the chief by hill and glen, Criffan's richest valleys ravage. Woe is me the foul offence, Done against my people's rights! When old Leinster's sons of fame, When the grim Gaul, who have come Hither o'er the ocean foam, From the fight victorious go, Then my heart sinks deadly low. Bless the blades our warriors draw! But my soul is weak for fear, Have them in thy holy keeping! LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL. OWEN ROE MAC AN BHAIRD. CIRCA 1610. TRANS. BY J. C. MANGAN. This lamentation relates to the death of Hugh, Earl O'Neill, and Rory, Earl O'Donnell, princes of the houses of Tyrone and Tyrconnell, who fled to Rome in 1607, and, dying there, were buried in one grave. It is addressed to Nuala, the Fair-Shouldered, sister of O'Donnell. O WOMAN of the Piercing Wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay Would God thou wert among the Gael! 'T were long before, around a grave Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave, Beside the wave in Donegal, In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, Or Killillee, Or where the sunny waters fall, At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, On Derry's plains, in rich Drumclieff, In olden years, No day could pass but woman's grief O, no! — from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, From high Dunluce's castle-walls, From Lissadil, Would flock alike both rich and poor. One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls And And some would come from Barrow-side, 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 O, horses' hoofs would trample down From glen and hill, from plain and town, There would not soon be found, I ween, One foot of ground among those bands So many shriekers of the keen Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, Two princes of the line of Conn Sleep in their cells of clay beside 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 The names these noteless burial stones Display to view, Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, 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 Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time They passed from earth ere manhood's prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows And who can marvel o'er thy grief, O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, Beside his brother Cathbar, whom A prince in look, in deed and word,— |