There was lifted up one voice of woe, One lament of more than mortal grief, Through the wide South to and fro, For a fallen Chief. In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me, I looked out upon the midnight air; Mine own soul was all as gloomy, And I knelt in prayer. O'er Loch Gur, that night, once--twice--yea, thrice-- Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave, That half curled into ice The moon-mirroring wave. Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine, And Moguly's Phantom Women Mourned the Geraldine! Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains, Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours, And Fermoy, in fitful strains, Answered from her towers. Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly, Mourned in concert, and their piercing _keen_ Woke to wondering life the stilly Glens of Inchiqueen. From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore There was fear; the traders of Tralee Gathered up their golden store, And prepared to flee; For, in ship and hall, from night till morning Showed the first faint beamings of the sun, All the foreigners heard the warning Of the Dreaded One! 'This,' they spake, 'portendeth death to us, If we fly not swiftly from our fate!' Self-conceited idiots! thus Ravingly to prate! Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters Ring laments like those by shore and sea! Not for churls with souls of hucksters Waileth our Banshee! For the high Milesian race alone Ever flows the music of her woe! For slain heir to bygone throne, And for Chief laid low! Hark!... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping Yonder! Is she near me now, as then? Or was but the night-wind sweeping Down the hollow glen? _James Clarence Mangan_ THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS _From the Irish_ O, Woman of Three Cows, _agragh!_ don't let your tongue thus rattle! O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. I have seen--and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true-- A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser; For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser; And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows, Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows! See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants! If _they_ were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can _you_ be proud, can _you_ be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?