  By O'Gnive, bard of Shane O'Neill, circa 1560. M My heart is in woe,And my soul deep in trouble,— For the mighty are low, And abased are the noble. The Sons of the Gael Are in exile and mourning, Worn, weary, and pale, As spent pilgrims returning; Or men who, in flight From the field of disaster, Beseech the black night On their flight to fall faster; Or seamen aghast When their planks gape asunder, And the waves fierce and fast Tumble through in hoarse thunder; That have got their death-omen— Such wretches are we In the chains of our foemen! Our courage is fear, Our nobility vileness, Our hope is despair, And our comeliness foulness. There is mist on our heads, And a cloud chill and hoary Of black sorrow sheds An eclipse on our glory. From Boyne to the Linn Has the mandate been given, That the children of Finn From their country be driven. That the sons of the king— Oh, the treason and malice!— Shall no more ride the ring In their own native valleys; No more shall repair Where the hill foxes tarry, Nor forth to the air Fling the hawk at her quarry; By the share of the stranger, And the stone-mason's stroke Tell the woods of their danger; The green hills and shore Be with white keeps disfigured, And the Moat of Rathmore Be the Saxon churl's haggard! The land of the lakes Shall no more know the prospect Of valleys and brakes— So transform'd is her aspect! The Gael cannot tell, In the uprooted wild-wood And red ridgy dell, The old nurse of his childhood; The nurse of his youth Is in doubt as she views him, If the wan wretch, in truth, Be the child of her bosom. We starve by the board, And we thirst amid wassail— For the guest is the lord, And the host is the vassal! Through the wastes wild and barren; We are strangers at home! We are exiles in Erin! And Erin's a bark O'er the wide waters driven! And the tempest howls dark, And her side planks are riven! And in billows of might Swell the Saxon before her,— Unite, oh, unite! Or the billows burst o'er her! Sir Samuel Ferguson. |
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