The Return of the Children of Lir

Strange is all this place to me,
No house, no home, no gladness;
As 'tis thus, this place to see —
Alas, my heart, what sadness!

No hound, no sound, no ember,
No group where princes gather;
Not thus do we remember
Its old days with our father.

No horn, no goblet glancing,
No halls of light, each morrow:
No youth, no proud steed prancing-
All signs portend us sorrow.

All the void that here I see —
Alas, my pain grows stronger!
Makes it, this night, clear to me
Its loved lord lives no longer.

City, where of old we knew
All arts of joy exerted,
What a fate of woe and rue —
Thou art, this night, deserted!

Dark our doom and tragical —
Condemned the waves to wander,
Ne'er such ill fate magical
Did mortal yet fall under.

Now, the City populous
Gives weeds and woods its favour:
No man lives who'd welcome us
To this, our homestead, ever.