SIGERSON

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J. E. C. Welldon

CLXXXII
THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS
(From the Irish)

Lo, our land this night is lone!
 Hear ye not sad Erin’s moan?
 Maidens weep and true men sorrow,
 Lone the Brave Race night and morrow.
Lone this night is Fola’s plain,—
 Though the foemen swarm amain—
 Far from Erin, generous-hearted,
 Far her Flower of Sons is parted.
Great the hardship! great the grief!
 Ulster wails Tirconaill’s Chief,
 From Emain west to Assarue
 Wails gallant, gentle, generous Hugh.
Children’s joy no more rejoices,—
 Fetters silence Song’s sweet voices—
 Change upon our chiefs, alas!
 Bare the altar, banned the Mass.
Homes are hearthless, harps in fetters,
 Guerdon’s none for men of letters,
 Banquets none, nor merry meetings,
 Hills ring not the chase’s greetings.
Songs of war make no heart stronger,
 Songs of peace inspire no longer,—
 In great halls, at close of days,
 Sound no more our fathers’ lays.
Foemen camp in Neimid’s plains;
 Who shall break our heavy chains?
 What Naisi, son of Conn, shall prove
 A Moses to the land we love?
She has none who now can aid her,
 All have gone before the invader;
 Banba’s bonds and cruel cross
 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!
 A loss to all who had speech with thee:—
 On earth can so hard a heart there be
 As not to weep for the death of Eoghan?
 Och, ochÓn! ’tis I am stricken,
 Unto death the isle may sicken,
 Thine the soul which all did quicken;
 —And thou ’neath the sod!
I stood at Cavan o’er thy tomb,
 Thou spok’st no word through all thy gloom;
 O want! O ruin! O bitter doom!
 O great, lost heir of the house of Niall!
 I care not now whom Death may borrow,
 Despair sits by me, night and morrow,
 My life henceforth is one long sorrow;
 —And thou ’neath the sod!
O child of heroes, heroic child!
 Thou’dst smite our foe in battle wild,
 Thou’dst right all wrong, O just and mild!
 And who lives now—since dead is Eoghan?
 In place of feasts, alas! there’s crying,
 In place of song, sad woe and sighing,
 Alas, I live with my heart a-dying,
 —And thou ’neath the sod!
My woe, was ever so cruel woe?
 My heart is torn with rending throe!
 I grieve that I am not lying low
 In silent death by thy side, Eoghan!
 Thou wast skilled all straits to ravel,
 And thousands broughtst from death and cavil,
 They journey safe who with thee travel,
 —And thou with thy God!
George Sigerson.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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