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.