During the troubles of 1641, the Castle of Donegal was garrisoned for the king by Sir Henry Brooke, the son of Sir Basil; but was taken in May 1651 by the Marquess of Clanricarde, who was joined by the Ulster forces under Sir Phelim O’Neill, when the O’Reillys and the MacMahons joined with him. But the castle was shortly afterwards abandoned by him, on receiving intelligence of the advance of Sir Charles Coote, into whose possession it then fell. Since that period the Castle of Donegal has never we believe been used as a residence, and no care has been taken to save it from the ruined state in which it now appears. It is, however, to the credit of its present possessor that he has taken every care to delay as much as possible the further ravages of time on a structure so interesting in its associations with the past. It is indeed impossible to look on this venerable pile without carrying our minds back to the days of its proud but unfortunate chiefs; and in our feelings of pity for their fate, indulging such sentiments as one of their last bards has attempted to express in the following poem, addressed to its ruins, and of which we give a literal translation. It is the composition of Malmurry Mac-an-Ward, or the son of the bard, and was written on the demolition of the castle by Red Hugh O'Donnell in 1601. ADDRESS TO THE RUINS OF DONEGAL CASTLE. O, solitary fort that standest yonder, What desolation dost thou not reveal! How tarnished is the beauty of thine aspect, Thou mansion of the chaste and gentle melodies! Demolished lie thy towering battlements-- The dark loam of the earth has risen up Over the whiteness of thy polished stones; And solitude and ruin gird thee round. Thy end is come, fair fortress, thou art fallen-- Thy magical prestige has been stripped off-- Thy well-shaped corner-stones have been displaced And cast forth to the outside of thy ramparts. In lieu of thy rich wine feasts, thou hast now Nought but the cold stream from the firmament; It penetrates thee on all sides, Thou mansion like Emania the golden. Thy doorways are, alas! filled up, Thou fortress of the once bright doors! The limestones of thy top lie at thy base, On all the sides of thy fair walls. Over the mouldings of thy shattered windows, The music that to-day breaks forth Is the wild music of the birds and winds, The voices of the stormy elements! O, many-gated Court of Donegal, What spell of slumber overcame thee, Thou mansion of the board of flowing goblets, To make thee undergo this rueful change? Thou wert, O, happy one of the bright walls, The Fortress of the Meetings of Clann-Connell, The Tara of Assemblies to Conn’s offspring, O, thou resplendent fount of nobleness!