  From the Irish How hard is my fortune, And vain my repining! The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining. My strength is departed; My cheek sunk and sallow; While I languish in chains, In the gaol of Cluanmeala. Was ever yet milder, I'd play with a child, And my sport would be wilder. I'd dance without tiring From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike To the lightning of Heaven. At my bed-foot decaying, My hurlbat is lying, Through the boys of the village My goal-ball is flying; My horse 'mong the neighbours Neglected may fallow,— While I pine in my chains, In the gaol of Cluanmeala. Next Sunday the patron At home will be keeping, And the young active hurlers The field will be sweeping. The evening they'll hallow, While this heart, once so gay, Shall be cold in Cluanmeala.
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