 | Legends of the wars in Ireland |  |
[“The woods of Drumlory]
“The woods of Drumlory
Are greenest and fairest,
And flowers in gay glory
Bloom there of the rarest:
They'll deck without number
A red grave and narrow,
Where he'll sleep his last slumber,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Are greenest and fairest,
And flowers in gay glory
Bloom there of the rarest:
160
A red grave and narrow,
Where he'll sleep his last slumber,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
The canavaun's blooming
Like snow on the marish,
The autumn is coming,
The summer flowers perish;
And, though love smiles all gladness,
He's left me in sorrow,
To mourn in my madness,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Like snow on the marish,
The autumn is coming,
The summer flowers perish;
And, though love smiles all gladness,
He's left me in sorrow,
To mourn in my madness,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Sweet love filled forever
His kind words and glances;
Light foot there was never
Like his in the dances,
By forest or fountain,
In goal on the curragh,
Or chase on the mountain,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
His kind words and glances;
Light foot there was never
Like his in the dances,
By forest or fountain,
In goal on the curragh,
Or chase on the mountain,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
When cannons did rattle,
And trumpets brayed loudly,
In the grim van of battle
His long plume waved proudly:
As the bolts from the bowmen,
Or share through the furrow,
He tore through the foemen,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
And trumpets brayed loudly,
In the grim van of battle
His long plume waved proudly:
As the bolts from the bowmen,
Or share through the furrow,
He tore through the foemen,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Alas! when we parted
That morn in the hollow,
Why staid I faint-hearted?
Why ne'er did I follow,
To fight by his side there,
The red battle thorough,
And die when he died there?
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
That morn in the hollow,
Why staid I faint-hearted?
Why ne'er did I follow,
161
The red battle thorough,
And die when he died there?
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Ah, woe is me! woe is me!
Love cannot wake him:
Woe is me! woe is me!
Grief cannot make him
Quit, to embrace me,
This red couch of sorrow,
Where soon they shall place me
By Hugh of Glenurra.”
Love cannot wake him:
Woe is me! woe is me!
Grief cannot make him
Quit, to embrace me,
This red couch of sorrow,
Where soon they shall place me
By Hugh of Glenurra.”
| Legends of the wars in Ireland | |