  The long, long wished-for hour has come, Yet come, astor, in vain; And left thee but the wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain: My light of life, my lonely love! Thy portion sure must be Man's scorn below, God's wrath above— A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! I've given thee manhood's early prime, And manhood's teeming years; I've blessed thee in my merriest time, And shed with thee my tears; And, mother, though thou cast away The child who'd die for thee, My fondest wishes still should pray For cuisle geal mo chroidhe! For thee I've tracked the mountain's sides, And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides O'er Lua's fairy lake. Because I'd make thee free; Yet still I love thee more and more, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! I've run the Outlaw's brief career, And borne his load of ill; His rocky couch—his dreamy fear— With fixed, sustaining will; And should his last dark chance befall, Even that shall welcome be; In Death I'd love thee best of all, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! 'Twas prayed for thee the world around, 'Twas hoped for thee by all, That with one gallant sunward bound Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall; Thy faith was tried, alas! and those Who'd peril all for thee Were curs'd and branded as thy foes, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! What fate is thine, unhappy Isle, When even the trusted few When most they should be true! 'Twas not my strength or spirit failed Or those who'd die for thee; Who loved thee truly have not failed, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! Michael Doheny |
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