Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Padraic Colum (1881–1972). Anthology of Irish Verse. 1922.

By Sir Samuel Ferguson

125. The Downfall of the Gael

MY HEART is in woe,

And my soul deep in trouble,—

For the mighty are low,

And abased are the noble:

The Sons of the Gael

Are in exile and mourning,

Worn, weary, and pale

As spent pilgrims returning;

Or men who, in flight

From the field of disaster,

Beseech the black night

On their flight to fall faster;

Or seamen aghast

When their planks gape asunder,

And the waves fierce and fast

Tumble through in hoarse thunder;

Or men whom we see

That have got their death-omen,—

Such wretches are we

In the chains of our foemen!

Our courage is fear,

Our nobility vileness,

Our hope is despair,

And our comeliness foulness.

There is mist on our heads,

And a cloud chill and hoary

Of black sorrow, sheds

An eclipse on our glory.

From Boyne to the Linn

Has the mandate been given,

That the children of Finn

From their country be driven.

That the sons of the king—

Oh, the treason and malice!—

Shall no more ride the ring

In their own native valleys;

No more shall repair

Where the hill foxes tarry,

Nor forth to the air

Fling the hawk at her quarry:

For the plain shall be broke

By the share of the stranger,

And the stone-mason’s stroke

Tell the woods of their danger;

The green hills and shore

Be with white keeps disfigured,

And the Mote of Rathmore

Be the Saxon churl’s haggard!

The land of the lakes

Shall no more know the prospect

Of valleys and brakes—

So transformed is her aspect!

The Gael cannot tell,

In the uprooted wildwood

And the red ridgy dell,

The old nurse of his childhood:

The nurse of his youth

Is in doubt as she views him,

If the wan wretch, in truth,

Be the child of her bosom.

We starve by the board,

And we thirst amid wassail—

For the guest is the lord,

And the host is the vassal!

Through the woods let us roam,

Through the wastes wild and barren;

We are strangers at home!

We are exiles in Erin!

And Erin’s a bark

O’er the wide waters driven!

And the tempest howls dark,

And her side planks are riven!

And in billows of might

Swell the Saxon before her,—

Unite, oh, unite!

Or the billows burst o’er her!