Would soon give place to rueful cries

And groans of woe!

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
Their mirthful glee.

There would not lack on Lifford's day,

From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,
From Limerick's towers,

A marshalled file, a long array

Of mourners to bedew the soil

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 life-blood offered up, though 'twere

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
That bloody night on Fergus' banks
But slain our chief,

When rose his camp in wild alarm—

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,

Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,

By shedding there, amid the fray,
Their prince's blood!

Red would have been our warriors' eyes Had Roderick found on Sligo field

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

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!

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, And iron thrall!

Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dry

Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
Thy heart aside;

For Adam's race is born to die,

And sternly the sepulchral urn
Mocks human pride!

Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,

Nor place thy trust in arm of clay—
But on thy knees

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
Thy Saviour trod!

Nor let thy spirit intermix

With earthly hope and worldly care
Its groans to God!

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,

And through the ages that may still
Roll sadly on,

Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,

And shield at least from darker ill

The blood of Conn!

James Clarence Mangan

A LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF SIR MAURICE FITZGERALD, KNIGHT OF KERRY

From the Irish

THERE was lifted up one voice of woe,

One lament of more than mortal grief, Through the wide South to and fro,

For a fallen Chief.

In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me, I looked out upon the midnight air;

Mine own soul was all as gloomy,

Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave,

That half curled into ice

The moon-mirroring wave.

Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in
Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,

And Moguly's Phantom Women

Mourned the Geraldine!

Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains,

Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours,

yea,