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io2 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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At my bed-foot decaying,
My hurlbat is lying, Through the boys of the village
My goal-ball is flying; My horse 'mong the neighbours
Neglected may fallow, — While I pine in my chains,
In the jail of Cluanmeala.
. Next Sunday the patron
At home will be keeping, And the young active hurlers
The field will be sweeping. With the dance of fair maidens
The evening they'll hallow, While this heart, once so gay,
Shall be cold in Cluanmeala. |
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THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE '
Translated from the Irish.
H
OW dimmed is the glory that circled the Gael And fall'n the high people of green Innisfail; a The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore ; And the mighty of nations is mighty no more!
1 Fearflalha 0' Gniamh was family olamh or bard to the O'Neil of Clanoboy about the year 1556. The poem of which these lines are the translation commences with " Ma thruagh mar alaid'Goadhil."—M. F. McCarthy.
5 Innisfail, the island of destiny, one of the names of Ireland. |
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