Lament for O'Carolan the Minstrel

My grief, my wounding, my anguish,
My sickness long,
Thy sweet harp-chords now languish
Without touch or song.
Who hence shall make music, vying
'Mid chiefs, for aye, —
Since thou, O my friend, art lying
Cold in the clay?

I rise, I behold, every morning
A land woe-smit;
Till black is the west, in mourning
On hills I sit.
O Saviour, comfort me pleading, —
My life's grown dim,
My eyes have become two bleeding
Founts after him.

Thy life was a poem noble,
My king-friend, proud:
I go sleepless all night with trouble —
My mind one cloud,
Through my heart's core pains are flying
Of piercing woe,
For Toralach O'Carolan lying
Lifeless and low.

St. Francis, St. Dominic, listen,
St. Clare and all
Ye host of the saints, who glisten
On heaven's high wall:
Give welcome to Toralach's spirit
Your ramparts among,
And the voice of his harp ye shall hear it
With glorious song!