O'Kelly has manuring for his land, that is not sand or dung, but ready soldiers doing bravery with pikes, that were left in Aughrim stretched in ridges--Och ochone! Who is that beyond on the hill, Ben Edair? I a poor soldier with King James. I was last year in arms and in dress, but this year I am asking alms--Och ochone! _An Aran Maid's Wedding_ I am widow and maid, and I very young; did you hear my great grief, that my treasure was drowned? If I had been in the boat that day, and my hand on the rope, my word to you, O'Reilly, it is I would have saved you sorrow. Do you remember the day the street was full of riders, and of priests and brothers, and all talking of the wedding feast? The fiddle was there in the middle, and the harp answering to it; and twelve mannerly women to bring my love to his bed. But you were of those three that went across to Kilcomin, ferrying Father Peter, who was three-and-eighty years old; if you came back within a month itself, I would be well content; but is it not a pity I to be lonely, and my first love in the waves? I would not begrudge you, O'Reilly, to be kinsman to a king, white bright courts around you, and you lying at your ease; a quiet, well-learned lady to be settling out your pillow; but it is a great thing you to die from me when I had given you my love entirely. It is no wonder a broken heart to be with your father and your mother; the white-breasted mother that crooned you, and you a baby; your wedded wife, O thousand treasures, that never set out your bed; and the day you went to Trabawn, how well it failed you to come home. Your eyes are with the eels, and your lips with the crabs; and your two white hands under the sharp rule of the salmon. Five pounds I would give to him that would find my true love. Ochone! it is you are a sharp grief to young Mary ni-Curtain! _A Poem Written in Time of Trouble by an Irish Priest Who Had Taken Orders in France_ My thoughts, my grief! are without strength My spirit is journeying towards death My eyes are as a frozen sea My tears my daily food; There is nothing in life but only misery. My poor heart is torn And my thoughts are sharp wounds within me, Mourning the miserable state of Ireland. Misfortune has come upon us all together The poor, the rich, the weak and the strong The great lord by whom hundreds were maintained The powerful strong man, and the man that holds the plough; And the cross laid on the bare shoulder of every man. Our feasts are without any voice of priests And none at them but women lamenting Tearing their hair with troubled minds Keening miserably after the Fenians. The pipes of our organs are broken Our harps have lost their strings that were tuned That might have made the great lamentations of Ireland. Until the strong men come back across the sea There is no help for us but bitter crying, Screams, and beating of hands, and calling out.