| |
| FAREWELL, O Patrick Sarsfield, may luck be on your path! | |
| Your camp is broken up, your work is marred for years; | |
| But you go to kindle into flame the King of France’s wrath, | |
| Though you leave sick Eire in tears— | |
| Och, ochone! | 5 |
| |
| May the white sun and moon rain glory on your head, | |
| All hero as you are, and holy man of God! | |
| To you the Saxons owe a many an hour of dread | |
| In the land you have often trod— | |
| Och, ochone! | 10 |
| |
| The Son of Mary guard, and bless you to the end! | |
| ’Tis altered is the time when your legions were astir, | |
| When at Cullen you were hailed as conqueror and friend, | |
| And you crossed Narrow-water near Birr,— | |
| Och, ochone! | 15 |
| |
| I’ll journey to the north, over mount, moor, and wave; | |
| ’Twas there I first beheld drawn up, in file and line, | |
| The brilliant Irish hosts; they were bravest of the brave. | |
| But alas, they scorned to combine— | |
| Och, ochone! | 20 |
| |
| I saw the royal Boyne when his billows flashed with blood | |
| I fought at Graine Og, when a thousand horsemen fell; | |
| On the dark empurpled plain of Aughrim, too, I stood, | |
| On the plain by Tubberdonny’s well— | |
| Och, ochone! | 25 |
| |
| To the heroes of Limerick, the City of the Fights, | |
| Be my best blessing borne on the wings of the air; | |
| We had card-playing there o’er our camp fires at night, | |
| And the Word of Life, too, and prayer— | |
| Och, ochone! | 30 |
| |
| But for you, Londerderry, may plague smite and slay | |
| Your people! May ruin desolate you stone by stone! | |
| Through you there’s many a gallant youth lies coffinless today | |
| With the winds for mourners alone— | |
| Och, ochone! | 35 |
| |
| I clomb the high hill on a fair summer noon, | |
| And saw the Saxons muster, clad in armour blinding bright: | |
| Oh, rage withheld my hand, or gunsman and dragoon | |
| Should have supped with Satan that night!— | |
| Och, ochone! | 40 |
| |
| How many a noble soldier, how many a cavalier, | |
| Careered along this road, seven fleeting weeks ago, | |
| With silver-hilted sword, with matchlock and with spear, | |
| Who now, mavrone! lieth low— | |
| Och, ochone! | 45 |
| |
| All hail to thee, Beinn Eidir but ah, on thy brow | |
| I see a limping soldier, who battled and who bled | |
| Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though now | |
| The worthy is begging his bread— | |
| Och, ochone! | 50 |
| |
| And Diarmid oh, Diarmid he perished in the strife; | |
| His head it was spiked upon a halberd high; | |
| His colours they were trampled: he had no chance of life | |
| If the Lord God Himself stood by!— | |
| Och, ochone! | 55 |
| |
| But most, oh my woe I lament and lament | |
| For the ten valient heroes who dwelt nigh the Nore, | |
| And my three blessed brothers; they left me and went | |
| To the wars, and returned no more— | |
| Och, ochone! | 60 |
| |
| On the bridge of the Boyne was our first overthrow; | |
| By Slaney the next, for we battled without rest; | |
| The third was at Aughrim. O Eire! thy woe | |
| Is a sword in my bleeding breast— | |
| Och, ochone! | 65 |
| |
| Oh, the roof above our heads, it was barbarously fired, | |
| While the black Orange guns blazed and bellowed around! | |
| And as volley followed volley, Colonel Mitchel inquired | |
| Whether Lucan still stood his ground?— | |
| Och, ochone! | 70 |
| |
| But O’Kelly still remains, to defy and to toil, | |
| He has memories that hell won’t permit him to forget, | |
| And a sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil | |
| Upon many an Aughrim yet!— | |
| Och, ochone! | 75 |
| |
| And I never shall believe that my fatherland can fall | |
| With the Burkes, and the Dukes, and the son of Royal James, | |
| And Talbot, the captain, and Sarsfield above all, | |
| The beloved of damsels and dames— | |
| Och, ochone! | 80 |
