The Lamentation of Felix M'Carthy

I'll sing my children's death-song, though
My voice is faint and low ;
Mine is the heart that's desolate —
'Tis I will mourn their fate.

I'll sing their death-song, though the dart
Is rankling in my heart :
No friend is here my pangs to soothe,
In this deep solitude.

Weep not the widow's grief to see,
When wild with agony :
Nor mourn to hear the bridegroom rave,
Above his partner's grave.

But weep for one whose bitter wail
Is poured upon the gale,
Like the shrill bird that flutters nigh
The nest, where its crushed offspring lie.

Yes ! I will sing this song of woe,
Till life's last spark shall glow,
Like the swan floating on the surge,
That murmurs its unwilling dirge.

Thou Callaghan, devoid of sin —
And Charles of the silken skin,
Mary and Anne, my peerless flower,
Entombed within an hour.

My four sweet children fair and brave,
Laid in one grave-
Wound of my soul, that I should say
Your death-song in one day !

Vain was the blood of Eiver's race,
And every opening grace,
And youth undarkened by a cloud —
Against an early shroud !

Mute are the tongues that sung for me,
In joyful harmony : —
Cold are the lips whose welcome kiss
To me was heavenly bliss.

O but for Him whose head was bowed
'Mid Calvary's mocking crowd —
Soon would I fly the painful day,
And follow in their way.

Yet mourned not He in voiceless gloom,
O'er Lazarus in the tomb —
Rushed not the flood from His dimmed eyes ?
Heaved not His breast with sighs?

Yes, for His kindred from the day
That earthward darkling lay, —
Then do not chide that I should mourn
For them that won't return.

And mourned not the pure Virgin, when
Her Son, transfixed by men,
Writhed in the throes of His dark agony ?
Then blame not me

At midnight's hour of silence deep,
Sealed in their balmy sleep, —
O crushing grief! O scathing blow ! —
My loved ones were laid low.

Methought, when bowed this head with time,
Around me they would twine,
Nor recked that I should mourn their lot.
A thing of nought.

'Twas meet to him, affection they should prove
Who gave them all his love,
And to old age the right concede,
Their path to lead.

Beauty and strength have left my brow,
Nor care nor wisdom have I now ;
Little the blow of death I dread
Since all my hopes have fled.

No more — no more shall music's voice
My heart rejoice —
Like a brain-stricken fool, whose ear
Is closed against earthly cheer.

When wailing at the dead of night,
They cross my aching sight —
They come, and beckoning me away,
They chide my long delay.

At midnight hour — at morn — at eve —
My sight they do not leave ;
Within — abroad — their looks of love,
Around me move.

O in their visits no affection's lost !
I love the pathways by their shadows crossed ;
Soon, by the will of heaven's King,
To their embrace I'll spring.

I pity her who never more will know
Contentment here below :
Who fed them at the fountain of her breast,
And hushed their infant rest.

Her faded eyes, her anguish speak,
And her clasped hands, so weak ;
'Tis she, alas ! of Erin's daughters
Hath seen the ruin of slaughters