The Caoine of the Children

I'll sing their caoine, if I can —
My faultless four, my heart's dear clan;
Since o'er all men I'm lorn to-day,
I'll sing their caoind mournfully.

Frail my life-stay evermore,
Death my heart has wounded sore;
I am alone in all the land,
No kindred now shall near me stand.

Since I must tell, thus left behind,
The cause of tears, with darkened mind,

My head is sick to-night from woe,
My voice, too, faint and trembling low.

Not so sad the young bride's heart,
Or husband's when their loved depart;
Like bird, nest-ruined, is my lot,
Wailing the young that they live not.

Or like to swans, the waves among,
When singing their unwilling song, —
As death comes nigh them and more nigh,
Singing their dirge with piteous cry.

I'll sing each day until my death,
A lay which never sweetness hath,
Though I am worn, and weak and drear,
I'll sing their dirge — my children dear.

My grief! in clay lies Callachan,

By Cormac's side, my sweet-voiced son:

Anna and Mary, too, my own

White Loves, beneath the same gray stone.

My children four, without a stain! —
Few the gifts they did not gain,
My bleeding heart-wound this, for aye,
To wail them all, within one day.

The noble boughs of Eber Mor,
Erinn's prosperous King of yore,
Are gone from me in youth and bloom
Unchanged, in beauty, to the tomb.

Theirs no kin of craven brood,
From Scythian rulers flowed their blood;
Miled's x offspring, near and far,
Their kindred brave in truth ye are.

The Spaniard-kings of sharp blue spears
To these were kin, and these their peers;
To them were England's Kings allied,
In other times, when that gave pride.

Sweet their cries whene'er I'd come,
Gaily running to greet me home, —
Who now shall kiss or welcome me,
Since they, in one grave, buried be?

Unless I looked to Christ — His thorns,
His anguish, cross, and cruel scorns —
I'd swiftly join them in the clay
Or it would wrench my mind away.

On seeing Lazarus lie low,
Christ mourned for him in pain and woe;
With weeping tears His eyes grew dim, —
Yet He was far from kin to him.

Tis right that I in gloom should weep,
And lifelong pine in anguish deep,
After my lost loved children four. —
The Virgin mother sorrowed sore.

Mary did not refrain from tears,

Her bleeding heart was rent with spears, —

When He was crucified and scorned.

I shame not mourning when she mourned.

For I have lost my kin most near,
I am robbed of all most dear,
In the narrow house of pain I lie,
Thrice racked with woeful misery.

In hushed midnight of heavy sleep,
Ah, plundered heart! ah, ruin deep!
My stainless four, I lost them all
In one brief moment tragical.

How oft I thought, when gray age frowned,
My children dear would gird me round;
Not that they to death would go
And leave me here in helpless woe.

To me my children's love was due, —
(I gave my whole heart unto you)
Since I, too, was more aged than they, —
'Twas meet respect to me they'd pay.

Yet woe is me! they've left my side,
Close by my heart they did not bide,
Nor let me first the dim way pass,
Because that I have sinned. Alas!

Small my care for sport or rime,
I'm very lone this little time; —
Not sweet to me is harp or "rann,"
I wander like a witless man.

Gone my aspect, gone my strength,
I am broken down at length;
Death's face alone I care to see,
Since all my friends are gone from me.

In hushed midnight of heavy sleeping,
When I am watching, sobbing, weeping,
My children glide before my woe,
Seeking that I should with them go.

I see them in the night-time ever,
From me in no place do they sever;
At home, abroad, still near are they,
Till I go with them to the clay.

Sweet to them that visit made!
Dear to me each sunbright Shade!
Full soon I'll follow on their way
Through God's most blessed will, I pray.

Woe is me, her sorrow's pall,
Who high affection gave to all, —
Whose heart gave life and love to each,
Woe is me her plaining speech!

Woe is me, her hands now weak
With smiting her white palms so meek:
Wet her eyes at noon, and broken
Her true heart with grief unspoken.

I wonder not at her despair,
She has lost life's light most fair.
She, o'er all of Erinn's daughters,
Has seen the ruin of dark slaughters.

O Glen, which saw this ruin sore,
And wrecked all joy for evermore,
God's malison fall on thee, dread,
In eric for my darlings dead.

Glen-an-air, the Slaughter-Glen,
Be hence thy name amongst all men;
Venom-treason thou'st done to me —
And now Accursed shalt thou be!

May'st thou ne'er see sun, nor noon,
May'st thou ne'er see star nor moon,
For that thou'st seen a deed of tears
Which makes me old before my years.

May never eye behold in thee
Flower, nori grass, nor leafy tree, —
But dire decay deform thee, ever,
By blackened banks and moaning river.