And who can marvel o'er thy grief, Or who can blame thy flowing tears, That knows their source? O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, Cut off amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair-- For valour, truth, and comely bloom, For all that greatens and adorns A peerless pair. O, had these twain, and he, the third, The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son, Their mate in death-- A prince in look, in deed and word-- Had these three heroes yielded on The field their breath, O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, There would not be a town or clan From shore to sea, But would with shrieks bewail the slain, Or chant aloud the exulting _rann_ Of Jubilee! When high the shout of battle rose, On fields where Freedom's torch still burned Through Erin's gloom, If one, if barely one of those Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned The hero's doom! If at Athboy, where hosts of brave Ulidian horsemen sank beneath The shock of spears, Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave, Long must the North have wept his death With heart-wrung tears! If on the day of Ballach-myre The Lord of Mourne had met thus young, A warrior's fate, In vain would such as thou desire To mourn, alone, the champion sprung From Niall the Great! No marvel this--for all the dead, Heaped on the field, pile over pile, At Mullach-brack, Were scarce an _eric_ for his head, If death had stayed his footsteps while On victory's track! If on the Day of Hostages The fruit had from the parent bough Been rudely torn In sight of Munster's bands--Mac-Nee's-- Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, Could ill have borne. If on the day of Ballach-boy Some arm had laid, by foul surprise, The chieftain low, Even our victorious shout of joy Would soon give place to rueful cries And groans of woe! If on the day the Saxon host Were forced to fly--a day so great For Ashanee-- The Chief had been untimely lost, Our conquering troops should moderate Their mirthful glee. There would not lack on Lifford's day, From Galway, from the glens of Boyle, From Limerick's towers, A marshalled file, a long array Of mourners to bedew the soil With tears in showers!