The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves ... Second Edition |
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THE RETURN FROM FINGAL |
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 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
THE RETURN FROM FINGAL
Moan, ye winds, ye caverns call
“Orro, orro!” to our sorrow,
While we bear 'neath one black pall
Brian, Murrough, from Fingal.
Still though wasted, wounded, weary,
On, Dalcassians! to your eyrie,
Eagles, crying from your crag,
“We have rent the Raven's flag.”
“Orro, orro!” to our sorrow,
While we bear 'neath one black pall
Brian, Murrough, from Fingal.
Still though wasted, wounded, weary,
On, Dalcassians! to your eyrie,
Eagles, crying from your crag,
“We have rent the Raven's flag.”
How O'Brien's banshee cried,
Wailing, warning, ere that morning,
When the Lochlan in his pride
Whitened all the ocean side.
Sea-kings stern from Norway's highlands,
Pirate chiefs from Orkney's Islands,
Lords of Leinster, Britain, Wales,
By the shore a thousand sails!
Wailing, warning, ere that morning,
When the Lochlan in his pride
Whitened all the ocean side.
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Pirate chiefs from Orkney's Islands,
Lords of Leinster, Britain, Wales,
By the shore a thousand sails!
“On this day,” great Brian cried
To the foeman, “Jew and Roman
Christ, our Saviour, crucified.
Hold we truce till Easter-tide!”
Loud rang back their impious laughter,
“Fight comes first, thanksgiving after!”
“Perish then, with shameful loss,
Howling fiends before the Cross!”
To the foeman, “Jew and Roman
Christ, our Saviour, crucified.
Hold we truce till Easter-tide!”
Loud rang back their impious laughter,
“Fight comes first, thanksgiving after!”
“Perish then, with shameful loss,
Howling fiends before the Cross!”
Plait and Donnell brand to brand
First in raging wrath engaging,
Heart pierced by each other's hand,
Fell together on the strand.
Then before the sword of Murrough
Fled the Dane; till to our sorrow
Anrud, Norway's champion dread,
Murrough met—and both lay dead.
First in raging wrath engaging,
Heart pierced by each other's hand,
Fell together on the strand.
Then before the sword of Murrough
Fled the Dane; till to our sorrow
Anrud, Norway's champion dread,
Murrough met—and both lay dead.
But our rallying cry awoke,
“Kian, Kian, Desmond's lion!”
And, at Kian's dreadful stroke,
Reeled the Lochlan ranks and broke.
“Now with strains of martial glory
To the King to tell our story,”
But we found great Brian low;
Och, ochone! och ullalo!
“Kian, Kian, Desmond's lion!”
And, at Kian's dreadful stroke,
Reeled the Lochlan ranks and broke.
“Now with strains of martial glory
To the King to tell our story,”
But we found great Brian low;
Och, ochone! och ullalo!
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Moan, ye winds, ye caverns call
“Orro, orro!” to our sorrow,
While we bear 'neath one black pall
Brian, Murrough, from Fingal.
Still though wasted, wounded, weary,
On, Dalcassians! to your eyrie,
Eagles, crying from your crag,
“We have rent the Raven's flag.”
“Orro, orro!” to our sorrow,
While we bear 'neath one black pall
Brian, Murrough, from Fingal.
Still though wasted, wounded, weary,
On, Dalcassians! to your eyrie,
Eagles, crying from your crag,
“We have rent the Raven's flag.”
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |