Sweet companions, ye were ever-- Harsh to me, your sister, never; Woods and wilds, and misty valleys, Were with you as good's a palace. O, to hear my true-love singing, Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing; Like the sway of ocean swelling Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling. O! to hear the echoes pealing Round our green and fairy sheeling, When the three, with soaring chorus, Passed the silent skylark o'er us. Echo now, sleep, morn and even-- Lark alone enchant the heaven! Ardan's lips are scant of breath, Neesa's tongue is cold in death. Stag, exult on glen and mountain-- Salmon, leap from loch to fountain-- Heron, in the free air warm ye-- Usnach's sons no more will harm ye! Erin's stay no more you are, Rulers of the ridge of war; Never more 'twill be your fate To keep the beam of battle straight! Woe is me! by fraud and wrong, Traitors false and tyrants strong, Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold, For Barach's feast and Conor's gold! Woe to Eman, roof and wall! Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall! Tenfold woe and black dishonour To the foul and false Clan Conor! Dig the grave both wide and deep, Sick I am, and fain would sleep! Dig the grave and make it ready, Lay me on my true-love's body. _Sir Samuel Ferguson_ THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND _From the Irish_ A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, _Uileacan dubh O!_ Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear; _Uileacan dubh O!_ There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned; There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland. Curled he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, _Uileacan dubh O!_ Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea; _Uileacan dubh O!_ And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland. Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground; _Uileacan dubh O!_ The butter and the cream do wondrously abound, _Uileacan dubh O!_ The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland, And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song 'i the forest grand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland. _Sir Samuel Ferguson_ LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE _From the Irish_