The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Maurice Fitz Gerald, Lord Justice, marched to the north-west, and a furious battle was fought between him and Godfrey O'Donnell, Prince of Tirconnell, at Creadran-Killa, north of Sligo, A.D. 1257. The two leaders met in single combat, and severely wounded each other. It was of the wound he then received that O'Donnell died, after triumphantly defeating his great rival in Ulster, O'Neill. The latter, hearing that O'Donnell was dying, demanded hostages from the Kinel Connell. The messengers who brought this insolent message fled in terror the moment they had delivered it;—and the answer to it was brought by O'Donnell on his bier. Maurice Fitz Gerald finally retired to the Franciscan monastery which he had founded at Youghal, and died peacefully in the habit of that Order.

Land which the Norman would make his own!
(Thus sang the Bard 'mid a host o'erthrown,
While their white cheeks some on the clench'd hand propp'd,
And from some the life-blood unheeded dropp'd)
There are men in thee that refuse to die,
Though they scorn to live, while a foe stands nigh!

I.

O'Donnell lay sick with a grievous wound:
The leech had left him; the priest had come;
The clan sat weeping upon the ground,
Their banners furl'd, and their minstrels dumb.

II.

Then spake O'Donnell, the King: ‘Although
My hour draws nigh, and my dolours grow;
And although my sins I have now confess'd,
And desire in the Land, my charge, to rest,
Yet leave this realm, nor will I nor can
While a stranger treads on her, child or man.

III.

I will languish no longer a sick King here:
My bed is grievous; build up my Bier.
The white robe a King wears over me throw;
Bear me forth to the field where he camps—your foe,
With the yellow torches and dirges low.
The heralds have brought his challenge and fled;
The answer they bore not I bear instead:
My People shall fight, my pain in sight,
And I shall sleep well when their wrong stands right.’

IV.

Then the clan rose up from the ground, and gave ear,
And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a Bier;
Its plumes from the eagle's wings were shed,
And the wine-black samite above it spread
Inwov'n with sad emblems and texts divine,
And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine,

And all that is meet for the great and brave
When past are the measured years God gave,
And a voice cries ‘Come’ from the waiting grave.

V.

When the Bier was ready they laid him thereon;
And the army forth bore him with wail and moan:
With wail by the sea-lakes and rock-abysses;
With moan through the vapour-trail'd wildernesses;
And men sore wounded themselves drew nigh
And said, ‘We will go with our King and die;’
And women wept as the pomp pass'd by.
The yellow torches far off were seen;
No war-note peal'd through the gorges green;
But the black pines echo'd the mourners' keen.

VI.

What said the Invader, that pomp in sight?
‘They sue for the pity they shall not win.’
But the sick King sat on the Bier upright,
And said, ‘So well! I shall sleep to-night:—
Rest here my couch, and my peace begin.’

VII.

Then the war-cry sounded—‘Lamb-dearg Aboo!’
And the whole clan rushed to the battle plain:
They were thrice driven back, but they closed anew
That an end might come to their King's great pain.
'Twas a nation, not army, that onward rush'd,
'Twas a nation's blood from their wounds that gush'd:
Bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy were slain;
Till evening their blood fell fast like rain;

But a shout swell'd up o'er the setting sun,
And O'Donnell died, for the field was won.

So they buried their King upon Aileach's shore;
And in peace he slept;—O'Donnell More.

University of Virginia Library

THE BALLAD OF THE BIER THAT CONQUERED;

OR, O'DONNELL'S ANSWER.

A.D. 1257.

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VII.