Kincora

O where, Kincora ! is Brian the Great ?
And where is the beauty that once was thine?
O where are the princes and nobles that sate
At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine ?
Where, O Kincora?

O where, Kincora ! are thy valorous lords ?
O whither, thou Hospitable ! are they gone ?
O where are the Dalcassians of the golden sword ?
And where are the warriors Brian led on ?
Where, O Kincora ?

And where is Morogh, the descendant of kings ;
The defeater of a hundred— the daringly brave —
Who set but slight store by jewels and rings ;
Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave ?
Where, O Kincora?

And where is Donogh, King Brian's son ?
And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief?
And Kian and Core ? Alas ! they are gone ;
They have left me this night alone with my grief!
Left me, Kincora !

And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth,
The never-vanquished sons of Erin the brave,
The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth,
And the hosts of Baskinn from the western wave ?
Where, O Kincora?

O where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds ?
And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy ?
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds
In the red battle-field no time can destroy ?
Where, O Kincora?

And where is that youth of majestic height,
The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots ? Even he,
As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might,
Was tributary, O Kincora, to thee !
Thee, O Kincora !

They are gone, those heroes of royal birth,
Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust ;
'Tis weary for me to be living on earth
When they, O Kincora, lie low in the dust !
Low, O Kincora !

O never again will Princes appear,
To rival the Dalcassians of the Cleaving Swords ;
I can never dream of meeting afar or anear,
In the east or the west such heroes and lords !
Never, Kincora !

O dear are the images my memory calls up
Of Brian Boru !— how he never would miss
To give me at the banquet the first bright cup !
Ah ! why did he heap on me honour like this ?
Why, O Kincora?

I am MacLiag, and my home is on the Lake :
Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled,
Came Brian, to ask me, and I went for his sake,
O my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead !
Dead, O Kincora !