 | Ballads of Irish chivalry |  |
THE DEATH OF O'DONNELL.
A.D. 1257.
I
Red victory smiled on thy legions, Tir Conaill,When the Geraldine fell 'neath the sparth of O'Donnel;
But fierce was the wailing, and wild was the sorrow
That broke from thy septs ere the dawn of the morrow!
For the prince of their bosoms the champions are grieving:
He fell while their axes the fierce foe were cleaving,
And he lies in his death-wounds by Swilly's dark river,
With his nation around him, as fearless as ever—
Joy, joy in his heart, tho' its pulses be dying,
That he fell while the foe from his valleys were flying.
II
The clans of Tyrone from their forays returning,Hear thy death strains, Tir Conaill, and joy in thy mourning,
149
Lies wounded to death 'neath the blow of the stranger;
And they well know a nation thus reft of its leader
'Neath the brands of a foe into ruin will speed her.
High hope for O'Niall! How he bands his wild kerne
From the shores of bright Neagh to the green isles of Erne,—
Oh! round him like torrents his vassals come sweeping
Where the waves of strong Derg down the valleys are leaping.
III
O'Donnell he lies where the green mountain forestIn the glow of the sunlight spreads thickest and hoarest,
While up to his death-couch in frantic disorder
Rush the men of fleet coursers, the scouts of his border;
And they tell in their fear of the black storms looming,
How the red-handed Niall and his thousands are coming!
Then quick spreads the fear of the mighty invader,
Yet all for Tir Conaill are banding to aid her;
And their chieftain—alas! that the death-wounds have bound him—
Calls the men of his might from the valleys around him.
IV
Then he raises his voice by that wild river billow,With the gash in his breast and the gore on his pillow—
150
Ever came in the hours of our sorrow and weakness:
He pours on our valleys, and now we will greet him
With the welcome of old on the plains where we meet him!
In the day of my strength ye have found me before ye
Where'er your bright claymores to victory bore ye;
In the day of my weakness my soul must be longing
To see how my people to battle are thronging!
V
Then sound ye, my children, the war note defiantFrom the gray Arran cliffs to the Pass of the Giant,
And make me a bier like the biers of my fathers;
Bear me high in your van where the red Niall gathers,
And we'll scatter his bands, as the storm-clouds of Heaven
From Aileach's black rocks by her thunders are driven!”
Then the hearts of his warriors grow stronger and prouder,
And the shouts of their ardour swell wilder and louder,
And fiercely their war-pipes are ringing and pealing,
From the low-lying glens to the far mountain shieling.
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VI
They've made him a bier like the biers of his fathers,They bear him afar where the red Niall gathers—
Six champions of might from that green forest alley
Bear him on thro' each wild glade and torrent-bound valley,
To a small mountain plain by a swift river torn,
Where the May-heather gleams in the dew of the morn;
But its vernal expanse by the fairy-rings spotted,
Ere the sheen of the evening with gore shall be clotted,
For there with their claymores so gallantly flashing
The septs of Tyrone on Tir Conaill are dashing!
VII
Oh, fiercely they meet! As the foam-wreathed surges,When some demon of midnight their black fury urges
To shatter thy cross, Ard Oilean of the prayers,
So rush and so meet the wild bands of the slayers!
Soon the septs of Tyrone in their might are prevailing,
And the strength of Tir Conaill is riven and failing—
But the bier! the black bier! with the prince of their valour,—
Oh! they look on his face in its last mortal pallor,
And they band them once more and rush fiercely together
On the files of Tyrone o'er the blood-crimsoned heather.
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VIII
Shout, shout for Tir Conaill! Hurra! for her striving!Now the ranks of the foeman her claymores are riving;
The hoofs of her steeds through his red blood are plashing,
And each rider's bright sparth 'mid his squadrons is crashing!
As a herd of gray wolves the O'Niall she scatters,
As the dust of the desert his legions she shatters;
But who in her next hour of need will defend her?
For a corse on his bier lies the prince of her splendour!
Oh! he died while his flags waved in victory o'er him,
With the last of his foemen far scattered before him!
IX
He worsted the stranger, he routed O'Niall,And long, long again ere they band for the trial;
Too well they remember the welcome he gave them,
When flight, nor the strength of their numbers could save them.
Oh! loud through the wild hills his coronach swelleth,
It startles the dun deer and wolf where he dwelleth;
There are eyes red with sorrow, from Erne's green islands
To wild Inishone of the wood-belted highlands;
For they'll ne'er meet his peer in the sad hour of danger
'Gainst the septs of the south, or the false-hearted stranger!
| Ballads of Irish chivalry | |