for the death of sir maurice fitzgerald, knight, of kerry,

who was killed in flanders, 1642.

from the irish, by clarence mangan.

there was lifted up one voice of woe,

one lament of more than mortal grief,

through the wide south to and fro,

for a fallen chief.

in the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,

i looked out upon the midnight air?

my own soul was all as gloomy,

as i knelt in prayer.

o'er loch gur, that night, once—twice—yea, thrice—

passed a wail of anguish for the brave

that half curled into ice

its moon-mirroring wave.

then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in

choral swell from ogra's dark ravine,

and mogeely's phantom women

mourned the geraldine!

far on carah mona's emerald plains

shrieks and sighs were blended many hours.

and fermoy in fitful strains

answered from her towers.

youghal, keenalmeaky, eemokilly,

mourned in concert, and their piercing keen

woke to wondering life the stilly

glens of inchiqueen.

[pg 113]

from loughmoe to yellow dunanore

there was fear; the traders of tralee

gathered up their golden store,

and prepared to flee;

for, in ship and hall from night till morning,

showed the first faint beamings of the sun,

all the foreigners heard the warning

of the dreaded one!

"this," they spake, "portendeth death to us,

if we fly not swiftly from our fate!"

self-conceited idiots! thus

ravingly to prate!

not for base-born higgling saxon trucksters

ring laments like those by shore and sea!

not for churls with souls like hucksters

waileth our banshee!

for the high milesian race alone

ever flows the music of her woe!

for slain heir to bygone throne,

and for chief laid low!

hark!... again, methinks, i hear her weeping

yonder! is she near me now, as then?

or was but the night-wind sweeping

down the hollow glen?