112. The Convict of Clonmala

HOW hard is my fortune,

And vain my repining!

The strong rope of fate

For this young neck is twining.

My strength is departed,

My cheek sunk and sallow,

While I languish in chains

In the gaol of Clonmala.

No boy in the village

Was ever yet milder;

I’d play with a child

And my sport would be wilder;

I’d dance without tiring

From morning till even,

And the goal-ball I’d strike

To the lightning of heaven.

At my bed-foot decaying,

My hurl-ball is lying;

Through the boys of the village

My goal-ball is flying;

My horse ’mong the neighbors

Neglected may fallow,

While I pine in my chains

In the gaol of Clonmala.

Next Sunday the pattern

At home will be keeping,

And the young active hurlers

The field will be sweeping;

With the dance of fair maidens

The evening they’ll hallow,

While this heart, once so gay,

Shall be cold in Clonmala.