Lament for Owen Roe O’Neill

1. The Gaelic race, alas, no leader owns,
The seed of Niall and Eibhear helpless moans,
The face of Eire now is dark with woe;
And fallen her pride, when died great Owen Roe!

2. All Erin lies in grief, from Boyne to Moy,
From Lene-Loch’s shore to Nore, they know no joy,
From Moy to Leim and Erne, the dread word goes,
“No blade nor shield succeeds to Owen Roe’s.”

3. ‘Tis cold each day the piercing north-wind blows,
The sun no ray of cheering brightness shows,
The storm doth rage, and still doth fiercer grow,
All earth grows pale, since death claimed Owen Roe.


4. In church-yard clay lies Erin’s generous Chief,
The Gael’s bright flower, this hour of bitter grief,
The trusty hand who ne’er forsook the right,
Leaves Eire’s land in danger, dark as night.