[Mourn Erin, sons of Erin mourn]
[_]
Translated by the Rev. E. Hincks, F. T. C. D.
1
Mourn Erin, sons of Erin mourn,
Give utterance to the inward throe,
As wails of her first love forlorn,
The virgin clad in robes of wo.
2
Mourn for our Champion snatched away
From the fair Currag's verdant ring;
Mourn for his fist now wrapt in clay,
No more the ponderous thump to fling.
3
Mourn for the daisy flower that went,
Ere half disclosed its boxing powers;
Mourn the green bud so rudely rent
From Ireland's pngilistic bowers.
4
Mourn for the universal wo,
With solemn dirge and faltering tongue,
For Ireland's champion is laid low,
So stout, so hearty, and so strong.
9
Mourn for old Ireland's hopes decayed,
Her bruisers weep in mournful strain,
Their fair example prostrate laid,
By seven-and-forty tumblers slain.
11
Long as the Commons-hall is trod,
Will I the yearly dirge renew,
Mourn for the nursling of the sod,
Our darling hurried from our view.
12
The proud shall pass forgot; the chill,
Damp, trickling vault their only mourner,
Not so our daisy; no, that still
Clings to the breast which first had worn her.
