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O WOMAN of the piercing wail, | |
Who mournest oer yon mound of clay | |
With sigh and groan, | |
Would God thou wert among the Gael! | |
Thou wouldst not then from day to day | 5 |
Weep thus alone. | |
Twere long before around a grave | |
In green Tyrconnel, one could find | |
This loneliness; | |
Near where Beann-Boirches banners wave, | 10 |
Such grief as thine could neer have pined | |
Companionless. | |
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Beside the wave in Donegal, | |
In Antrims glens, or fair Dromore, | |
Or Killilee, | 15 |
Or where the sunny waters fall | |
At Assaroe, near Erna shore, | |
This could not be. | |
On Derrys plains, in rich Drumcliff, | |
Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned | 20 |
In olden years, | |
No day could pass but womans grief | |
Would rain upon the burial-ground | |
Fresh floods of tears! | |
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O no!From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, | 25 |
From high Dunluces castle-walls, | |
From Lissadill, | |
Would flock alike both rich and poor: | |
One wail would rise from Cruachans halls | |
To Tara Hill; | 30 |
And some would come from Barrow-side, | |
And many a maid would leave her home | |
On Leitrims plains, | |
And by melodious Bannas tide, | |
And by the Mourne and Erne, to come | 35 |
And swell thy strains! | |
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O, horses hoofs would trample down | |
The mount whereon the martyr-saint | |
Was crucified; | |
From glen and hill, from plain and town, | 40 |
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, | |
Would echo wide | |
There would not soon be found, I ween, | |
One foot of ground among those bands | |
For museful thought, | 45 |
So many shriekers of the keen | |
Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, | |
All woe-distraught! | |
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Two princes of the line of Conn | |
Sleep in their cells of clay beside | 50 |
ODonnell Roe: | |
Three royal youths, alas! are gone, | |
Who lived for Erins weal, but died | |
For Erins woe. | |
Ah, could the men of Ireland read | 55 |
The names those noteless burial-stones | |
Display to view, | |
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, | |
Their tears gush forth again, their groans | |
Resound anew! | 60 |
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The youths whose relics moulder here | |
Were sprung from Hugh, high prince and lord | |
Of Aileachs lands; | |
Thy noble brothers, justly dear, | |
Thy nephew, long to be deplored | 65 |
By Ulsters bands. | |
Theirs were not souls wherein dull time | |
Could domicile decay, or house | |
Decrepitude! | |
They passed from earth ere manhoods prime, | 70 |
Ere years had power to dim their brows, | |
Or chill their blood. | |
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And who can marvel oer thy grief, | |
Or who can blame thy flowing tears, | |
Who knows their source? | 75 |
ODonnell, Dunnasavas chief, | |
Cut off amid his vernal years, | |
Lies here a corse | |
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom | |
Tyrconnell of the Helmets mourns | 80 |
In deep despair: | |
For valour, truth, and comely bloom, | |
For all that greatens and adorns, | |
A peerless pair. | |
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Oh, had these twain, and he, the third, | 85 |
The Lord of Mourne, ONialls son | |
(Their mate in death), | |
A prince in look, in deed, and word, | |
Had these three heroes yielded on | |
The field their breath, | 90 |
Oh, had they fallen on Criffans plain, | |
There would not be a town or clan | |
From shore to sea, | |
But would with shrieks bewail the slain, | |
Or chant aloud the exulting rann | 95 |
Of jubilee! | |
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When high the shout of battle rose, | |
On fields where Freedoms torch still burned | |
Through Erins gloom, | |
If one, if barely one of those | 100 |
Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned | |
The heros doom! | |
If at Athboy, where hosts of brave | |
Ulidian horsemen sank beneath | |
The shock of spears, | 105 |
Young Hugh ONeill had found a grave, | |
Long must the North have wept his death | |
With heart-wrung tears! | |
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If on the day of Ballach-myre | |
The Lord of Mourne had met thus young, | 110 |
A warriors fate, | |
In vain would such as thou desire | |
To mourn, alone, the champion sprung | |
From Niall the Great! | |
No marvel thisfor all the dead, | 115 |
Heaped on the field, pile over pile, | |
At Mullach-brack, | |
Were scarce an eric for his head, | |
If death had stayed his footsteps while | |
On victorys track! | 120 |
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If on the Day of Hostages | |
The fruit had from the parent bough | |
Been rudely torn | |
In sight of Munsters bands-MacNees | |
Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, | 125 |
Could ill have borne. | |
If on the day of Ballach-boy | |
Some arm had laid by foul surprise, | |
The chieftain low, | |
Even our victorious shout of joy | 130 |
Would soon give place to rueful cries | |
And groans of woe! | |
|
If on the day the Saxon host | |
Were forced to flya day so great | |
For Ashanee | 135 |
The Chief had been untimely lost, | |
Our conquering troops should moderate | |
Their mirthful glee. | |
There would not lack on Liffords day, | |
From Galway, from the glens of Boyle, | 140 |
From Limericks towers, | |
A marshalled file, a long array | |
Of mourners to bedew the soil | |
With tears in showers! | |
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If on the day a sterner fate | 145 |
Compelled his flight from Athenree, | |
His blood had flowed, | |
What numbers all disconsolate, | |
Would come unasked, and share with thee | |
Afflictions load! | 150 |
If Derrys crimson field had seen | |
His life-blood offered up, though twere | |
On Victorys shrine, | |
A thousand cries would swell the keen, | |
A thousand voices of despair | 155 |
Would echo thine! | |
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Oh, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm | |
That bloody night of Fergus banks | |
But slain our Chief, | |
When rose his camp in wild alarm | 160 |
How would the triumph of his ranks | |
be dashed with grief! | |
How would the troops of Murbach Mourn | |
If on the Curlew Mountains day | |
Which England rued, | 165 |
Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, | |
By shedding there, amid the fray, | |
Their princes blood! | |
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Red would have been our warriors eyes | |
Had Roderick found on Sligos field | 170 |
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 | 175 |
Had met the death he oft had dealt | |
Among the foe; | |
But, had our Roderick fallen too, | |
All Erin must, alas! have felt | |
The deadly blow! | 180 |
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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, | 185 |
And iron thrall. | |
Then, daughter of ODonnell, dry | |
Thine overflowing eyes, and turn | |
Thy heart aside, | |
For Adams race is born to die, | 190 |
And sternly the sepulchral urn | |
Mocks human pride. | |
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Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, | |
Nor place thy trust in arm of clay, | |
But on thy knees | 195 |
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 | 200 |
Thy Saviour trod; | |
Nor let thy spirit intermix | |
With earthly hope, with worldly care, | |
Its groans to God! | |
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And Thou, O mighty Lord! Whose Ways | 205 |
Are far above our feeble minds | |
To understand, | |
Sustain us in these doleful days, | |
And render light the chain that binds | |
Our fallen land! | 210 |