Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, Sure we never won a battle-'twas Owen won them all. Had he lived-had he lived our dear country had been free; But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be. O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon-ye are valiant, wise, and true; But what are ye all to our darling who is gone? The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's Cornerstone! Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride! Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died! Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb-weep him, young men and old; Weep for him, ye women-your Beautiful lies cold! We thought you would not die-we were sure you I would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die? Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye, O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die? Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high; But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen !-why did you die?' Thomas Davis. CLXXIX THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE THE Little Black Rose shall be red at last; The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; What drove her forth but the dragon fly? In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, With her mild gold horn, and her slow, dark eye. The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last! Aubrey de Vere. CLXXX THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, We drink the memory of the brave, Some lie far off beyond the wave, Some sleep in Ireland, too. All, all are gone; but still lives on Some on the shores of distant lands And by the stranger's heedless hands The dust of some is Irish earth; And the same land that gave them birth And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that might can vanquish right They fell and pass'd away; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here's their memory! may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate, And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight! John Kells Ingram. CLXXXI NATIONAL PRESAGE UNHAPPY Erin, what a lot was thine! They know not what-but surely something great. CLXXXII THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS (From the Irish) Lo, our land this night is lone ! Hear ye not sad Erin's moan? Lone this night is Fola's plain,- Great the hardship! great the grief! Wails gallant, gentle, generous Hugh. Children's joy no more rejoices,— Homes are hearthless, harps in fetters, Songs of war make no heart stronger, Foemen camp in Neimid's plains; She has none who now can aid her, Steal the very soul from us! George Sigerson. CLXXXIII LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUA O'NEILL (From the Irish) How great the loss is thy loss to me! |