  From the Irish The sun on Ivera No longer shines brightly, The voice of her music No longer is sprightly; The light dance is dear, Since the death of our darling O'Sullivan Bear. Scully! thou false one, You basely betrayed him, In his strong hour of need, When thy right hand should aid him; He fed thee—he clad thee— You had all could delight thee: You left him—you sold him— May Heaven requite thee! Scully! may all kinds Of evil attend thee! On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee! May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee! May the strong hand of God In His red anger seize thee! Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him; Of the sea-war closed o'er him: But with ropes round his white limbs Through ocean to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter— 'Tis therefore I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them; Scully, that sold him, And soldier that slew him! One glimpse of heaven's light May they see never! May the hearthstone of hell Be their best bed for ever! In the hole which the vile hands Of soldiers had made thee, Unhonour'd, unshrouded, And headless they laid thee; No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee, No friend to deplore thee! How gory and pale, These aged eyes see thee, High spiked on their gaol! That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warm; Nor that eye e'er catch light, But the flash of the storm. A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork To Ivera of slaughter: Since thy billows were dyed With the red wounds of fear Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'Sullivan Bear! Jeremiah Joseph Callanan |
|
