The Downfall Of The Gael

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!