A cripple was Robin for many years long, Who troubled and bullied the island when strong; His own friends of tending him weary did grow: Thy murder, Brown William, fills Mona with woe. Sly Richard took ship with thy blood on his hand, But God can avenge on the sea as on land; The waves would not bear him, but whelm’d him, I trow: Thy murder, Brown William, fills Mona with woe. And now, if a few of the seed do remain, They’re vile as the thistles and briars of the plain; They ply for their neighbours the pick and the hoe: Thy murder, Brown William, fills Mona with woe. Should ye walk through all Man you’ll find no one, I reckon, To mourn for the name that was once in Beemachan; But thousands of poor who rejoice that ’tis low: Thy murder, Brown William, fills Mona with woe. Proceed to Creganyn, and Balla-logh green, But where’s there a Colcad to bid ye walk in? By strangers their homes and their lands are held now: Thy murder, Brown William, fills Mona with woe. Great Scarlett, in wealth who dwelt down by the bay, Must toil now with paupers for sixpence a-day; And oft, as I’ve heard, has no morsel to chew: Thy murder, Brown William, fills Mona with woe. The band by whose weapons the great Cæsar died Were hunted by foes, and all peace were denied; Not one died the death of kind Nature, O, no! Thy murder, Brown William, fills Mona with woe. So it fared with the band by whom Willie did die, Their lands are a waste, their names stink to the sky; They melted like rime in the ruddy sun’s glow: Thy murder, Brown William, fills Mona with woe. But comfort I take, for ’tis common report There are shoots of dear Will who are sitting at court, Who have punished his foes by king’s mandate, although Thy murder, Brown William, fills Mona with woe. O, ’tis pleasant to think, when one’s wither’d and grey, There’s race of Brown William in fair Ronaldsway, That his foemen are crush’d, and their faces can’t show, While the clan of Christeen have no trouble or woe. {10} To the counsellors false, both in church and in state, Bear the public of Mona both loathing and hate, Who set man against man, and the peace would break now, As thy murder, Brown William, broke hearts long ago. The lord of our island, Duke Athol the great, They would gladly persuade, with their parle and their prate, The corner-stones high of his house to lay low, And to King, Duke and Mona are foemen, I trow. THE POWER OF THE HARP Sir Peter would forth from the castle ride, Grieving and weeping did sit his young bride. _Belov’d of my heart_, _wherefore sorrowest thou so_? “Art grieving for saddle, or steed black or white, Or because I have wed thee art thou in this plight?” _Belov’d of my heart_, _wherefore sorrowest thou so_? “I grieve not for saddle, or steed black or white, Nor because thou hast wed me am I in this plight.” _Belov’d of my heart_, _wherefore sorrowest thou so_?