XVI.

Could Manus of the lofty soul

Behold thee as this day thou art,

Thou of the regal towers! what bitter, bitter dole,
What agony would rend his heart!

XVII.

Could Hugh Mac Hugh's imaginings
Pourtray for him thy rueful plight,

What anguish, O, thou palace of the northern kings,
Were his through many a sleepless night!

XVIII.

Could even the mighty Prince whose choice
It was to o'erthrow thee-could Hugh Roe

But view thee now, methinks he would not much rejoice
That he had laid thy turrets low!

XIX.

Oh! who could dream that one like him,

One sprung of such a line as his,

Thou of the embellished walls, would be the man to dim Thy glories by a deed like this!

XX.

From Hugh O'Donnell, thine own brave

And far-famed sovereign, came the blow!

By him, thou lonesome castle o'er the Esky's wave,
By him was wrought thine overthrow !

XXI.

Yet not because he wished thee ill

Left he thee thus bereaven and void;

The prince of the victorious tribe of Dalach still
Loved thee, yea, thee whom he destroyed!

XXII.

He brought upon thee all this woe,

Thou of the fair-proportioned walls,

Lest thou should'st ever yield a shelter to the foe,
Should'st house the black ferocious Galls !*

XXIII.

Should'st yet become in saddest truth

A Dun-na-Gallt-the stranger's own.

For this cause only, stronghold of the Gaelic youth,
Lie thy majestic towers o'erthrown.

XXIV.

It is a drear, a dismal sight,

This of thy ruin and decay,

Now that our kings, and bards, and men of mark and

might

Are nameless exiles far away!

XXV.

Yet, better thou shouldst fall, meseems,

By thine own King of many thrones,

Than that the truculent Galls should rear around thy

So hath, O shield and bulwark of great Coffey's race,

Thy royal master done by thee!

XXVII.

The surgeon, if he be but wise,

Examines till he learns and sees

Where lies the fountain of his patient's health, where lies The germ and root of his disease ;

XXVIII.

Then cuts away the gangrened part,
That so the sounder may be freed

Ere the disease hath power to reach the sufferer's heart,
And so bring death without remead.

XXIX.

Now, thou hast held the patient's place,
And thy disease hath been the foe;

So he, thy surgeon, O proud house of Dalach's race,
Who should he be if not Hugh Roe?

XXX.

But he, thus fated to destroy

Thy shining walls, will yet restore

And raise thee up anew in beauty and in joy,

So that thou shalt not sorrow more.

XXXI.

By God's help, he who wrought thy fall
Will reinstate thee yet in pride;

Thy variegated halls shall be rebuilded all,
Thy lofty courts, thy chambers wide.

XXXII.

Yes! thou shalt live again, and see

Thine youth renewed! Thou shalt outshine Thy former self by far, and Hugh shall reign in thee, The Tirconnellian's king and thine!

OWEN ROE WARD, bard to the O'Donnells, has left behind him an elegy on the melancholy death of Hugh O'Neill, the Earl of Tyrone, so celebrated by his successful opposition to the arms of Elizabeth, and Rory O'Donnell, Earl of Tyrconnell. These Ulster princes had fled from Ireland, in 1607, to escape a charge of conspiracy brought against them, on the authority of a letter dropped in the privy council, and both died shortly after, between 1608 and 1610, and were interred in one grave, on St. Peter's Hill, at Rome. On this charge, which was never proved on good evidence, and which subsequent writers have asserted to have been a conspiracy against these princes, six counties of Ulster were confiscated and forfeited to the crown.* The mourner here addressed was the female relative of one of the princes.

* Dr. Anderson, an English writer, as quoted by Mr. Hardiman, states"Artful Cecil employed one St. Lawrence to entrap the Earls of Tyrone and Tyrconnell, the Lord of Delvin, and other Irish chiefs, into a sham plot, which had no evidence but his. But those chiefs, being basely informed that witnesses were to be hired against them, foolishly fled from Dublin, and so, taking guilt upon them, they were declared rebels, and six entire counties were at once forfeited to the crown, which was what their enemies wanted."

K

A LAMENT

FOR THE TIRONIAN AND TIRCONNELLIAN PRINCES BURIED AT ROME.*

TRANSLATED BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

Oh, woman of the piercing wail,

Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay,
With sigh and groan,

Would God thou wert among the Gael!
Thou wouldst not then, from day to day,
Weep thus alone.

'Twere long before, around a grave,
In green Tirconnell, one could find
This loneliness.

Beside the wave in Donegal,

In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
Or Killilee,

Or where the sunny waters fall,
At Assaroe, near Erna's shore,
This could not be

On Derry's plains-in rich Drumclieff
Throughout Armagh the great, renowned
In olden years,

No day could pass but woman's grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground
Fresh floods of tears!

* The present translation, including some verses I have omitted, appeared in the Irish Penny Journal.