Had these three heroes yielded on O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, But would with shrieks bewail the Slain, When high the shout of battle rose On fields where Freedom's torch still burned Through Erin's gloom, If one, if barely one, of those Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned If at Athboy, where hosts of brave Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave, If on the day of Ballachmyre The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young, A warrior's fate, In vain would such as thou desire To mourn, alone, the champion sprung From Niall the Great! No marvel this, for all the Dead, Heaped on the field, pile over pile, Were scarce an eric for his head If Death had stayed his footsteps while On victory's track! If on the Day of Hostages The fruit had from the parent bough Been rudely torn In sight of Munster's bands, Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, Could ill have borne. If on the day of Balloch-boy Some arm had laid, by foul surprise, Even our victorious shout of joy If on the day the Saxon host Were forced to fly- a day so great For Ashanee The Chief had been untimely lost, Our conquering troops should moderate There would not lack on Lifford's day A marshalled file, a long array, With tears in showers! If on the day a sterner fate Compelled his flight from Athenree, His blood had flowed, What numbers all disconsolate Would come unasked, and share with thee Affliction's load! If Derry's crimson field had seen His lifeblood offered up, though 't were On Victory's shrine, A thousand cries would swell the keen, A thousand voices of despair Would echo thine! O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm When rose his camp in wild alarm, How would the triumph of his ranks How would the troops of Murbach mourn Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, Red would have been our warriors' eyes No Northern chief would soon arise So sage to guide, so strong to shield, Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh Among the foe; But had our Roderick fallen too, All Erin must, alas! have felt What do I say? Ah, woe is me! Their fatal fall! And Erin, once the Great and Free, Now vainly mourns her breakless chain Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry Thine overflowing eyes, and turn For Adam's race is born to die, And sternly the sepulchral urn Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, Uplift thy soul to God alone, For all things go their destined way 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 And thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways Are far above our feeble minds To understand, Sustain us in these doleful days, And render light the chain that binds Our fallen land! Look down upon our dreary state, Roll sadly on, Watch thou o'er hapless Erin's fate, And shield at least from darker ill DARK ROSALEEN. BARD OF THE O'DONNELL. ELIZABETHAN Era. TRANS. BY J. C. MANGAN. "Dark Rosaleen," or "Rosin Dubh," the "Little Black Rose," is one of the many allegorical names with which Ireland began to be addressed at this period. The author was one of the bards of the celebrated Hugh Roe O'Donnell; and the expressions "Spanish ale" and "Roman wine" allude to expected help from Spain and Rome. O MY Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, 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, Over hills and through dales, Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed with sails I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My Dark Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen ! Oh there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My Dark Rosaleen! |