Hugh marched forth to fight: I grieved to see him so depart. And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad betrayed; But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right hand hath laid In ashes, warms the hero's heart!
A LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNEL
Addressed to Nuala, the O'Donnell's sister, by Owen Roe mac an Bhaird (or Ward), the family Bard, in 1608-9.
O woman of the piercing wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan, Would God thou wert among the Gael! Thou would'st not then from day to day Weep thus alone. 'Twere long before around a grave In green Tyrconnel, one could find This loneliness; Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave, Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined Companionless.
Beside the wave in Donegal, In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, Or Killilee, Or where the sunny waters fall At Assaroe, near Erna shore, This could not be. On Derry's plains, in rich Drumcliff, Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned In olden years, No day could pass but woman's grief Would rain upon the burial-ground Fresh floods of tears!
O no!--From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, From high Dunluce's castle-walls, From Lissadill, Would flock alike both rich and poor: One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls To Tara hill; And some would come from Barrow-side, And 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 And swell thy strains!
Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down The mount whereon the martyr-saint Was crucified; From glen and hill, from plain and town, 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, So many shriekers of the keen Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, All woe-distraught!
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 those noteless burial-stones Display to view, Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, Their tears gush forth again, their groans Resound anew!
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 By Ulster's bands. Theirs were not souls wherein dull time Could domicile decay, or house Decrepitude! They passed from earth ere manhood's prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows, Or chill their blood.