She had arisen that morning at her accustomed hour, to take to her breast the little infant who slept in the cradle beside her;—but lifeless was that form which, a few hours before, she had laid on its pillow, in the full enjoyment of health. Spasms, it was supposed, had seized the child in his sleep; for his face was black and dreadfully disfigured. All efforts to recover him were fruitless. Physician nor medicine could avail,—the hand of death had struck the flower,—the vital spark was extinguished. It was in vain that the distracted mother, pressing his cold lips to hers, declared, in the agony of hope, that they still retained a living warmth.—It was in vain that she watched him till her eyes deceived, fancied that they saw a change imperceptible to others—a breath of life restored to that lifeless breathless form. It was in vain:—and floods of grief, with the sad rites of a pompous funeral, were all which the afflicted Duke and his sorrowing family had to bestow. The tenants and peasantry were, according to an ancient custom, admitted to sing the song of sorrow over the body of the child: but no hired mourners were required on this occasion; for the hearts of all deeply shared in the affliction of their master’s house, and wept, in bitter woe, the untimely loss of their infant Lord.—It was thus they sung, ever repeating the same monotonous and melancholy strain. Oh loudly sing the Pillalu, And many a tear of sorrow shed; _Och orro, orro, Olalu_; Mourn, for the master’s child is dead. At morn, along the eastern sky, We marked an owl, with heavy wing; At eve, we heard the benshees cry; And now the song of death we sing; _Och orro, orro, Olalu_. Ah! wherefore, wherefore would ye die; Why would ye leave your parents dear; Why leave your sorrowing kinsmen here, Nor listen to your people’s cry! How wilt thy mother bear to part With one so tender, fair and sweet! Thou wast the jewel of her heart, The pulse, the life, that made it beat. How sad it is to leave her boy, That tender flowret all alone; To see no more his face of joy, And soothe no more his infant moan! But see along the mountains side, And by the pleasant banks of Larney, Straight o’er the plains, and woodlands wide, By Castle Brae, and Lock Macharney: See how the sorrowing neighbours throng. With haggard looks and faultering breath; And as they slowly wind along, They sing the mournful song of death! O loudly sing the Pillalu, And many a tear of sorrow shed; _Och orro, orro, Olalu_; Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.