Kincora

And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth,

The ne’er-vanquished son of Evin the Brave,

The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth,

And the hosts of Baskinn, from the western wave?

Where, O Kincora?

Oh, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds?

And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy?

And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds

In the red battlefield no time can destroy?

Where, O Kincora?

And where is that youth of majestic height,

The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots?—Even he,

As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might,

Was tributary, O Kincora, to thee!

Thee, O Kincora!

They are gone, those heroes of royal birth,

Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust,

’Tis weary for me to be living on earth

When they, O Kincora, lie low in the dust!

Low, O Kincora!