A Book of Irish Verse Part 4

The Judgment Hour must first be nigh Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My Dark Rosaleen!

_James Clarence Mangan_

LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL

_From the Irish_

O woman of the Piercing Wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan, Would G.o.d thou wert among the Gael!

Thou wouldst not then from day to day Weep thus alone.

'Twere long before, around a grave In green Tyrconnell, 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 Killillee.

Or where the sunny waters fall At a.s.saroe, near Erna's sh.o.r.e, This could not be.

On Derry's plains--in rich Drumclieff-- Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned In olden years, No day could pa.s.s 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's 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!

O, 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 these 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed from Earth ere Manhood's prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows Or chill their blood.

And who can marvel o'er thy grief, Or who can blame thy flowing tears, That knows their source?

O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, Cut off amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair-- For valour, truth, and comely bloom, For all that greatens and adorns A peerless pair.

O, had these twain, and he, the third, The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son, Their mate in death-- A prince in look, in deed and word-- Had these three heroes yielded on The field their breath, O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, There would not be a town or clan From sh.o.r.e to sea, But would with shrieks bewail the slain, Or chant aloud the exulting _rann_ Of Jubilee!

When high the shout of battle rose, On fields where Freedom's torch still burned Through Erin's gloom, If one, if barely one of those Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned The hero's doom!

If at Athboy, where hosts of brave Ulidian hors.e.m.e.n sank beneath The shock of spears, Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave, Long must the North have wept his death With heart-wrung tears!

If on the day of Ballach-myre The Lord of Mourne had met thus young, A warrior's fate, In vain would such as thou desire To mourn, alone, the champion sprung From Niall the Great!

No marvel this--for all the dead, Heaped on the field, pile over pile, At Mullach-brack, Were scarce an _eric_ for his head, If death had stayed his footsteps while On victory's track!

If on the Day of Hostages The fruit had from the parent bough Been rudely torn In sight of Munster's bands--Mac-Nee's-- Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, Could ill have borne.

If on the day of Ballach-boy Some arm had laid, by foul surprise, The chieftain low, Even our victorious shout of joy

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 Dalca.s.sian swarm That b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d!

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, And I knelt in prayer.

O'er Loch Gur, that night, once--twice--yea, thrice-- Pa.s.sed 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, And Fermoy, in fitful strains, Answered from her towers.

Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly, Mourned in concert, and their piercing _keen_ Woke to wondering life the stilly Glens of Inchiqueen.

From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore There was fear; the traders of Tralee Gathered up their golden store, And prepared to flee; For, in ship and hall, from night till morning Showed the first faint beamings of the sun, All the foreigners heard the warning Of the Dreaded One!

'This,' they spake, 'portendeth death to us, If we fly not swiftly from our fate!'

Self-conceited idiots! thus Ravingly to prate!

Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters Ring laments like those by sh.o.r.e and sea!

Not for churls with souls of hucksters Waileth our Banshee!

For the high Milesian race alone Ever flows the music of her woe!

For slain heir to bygone throne, And for Chief laid low!

Hark!... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping Yonder! Is she near me now, as then?