The Last Words of Red Hugh O'Donnell on His Departure from Ireland for Spain

WEEP not the brave Dead!
Weep rather the Living —

On them lies the curse
Of a Doom unforgiving!
Each dark hour that rolls,

Shall the memories they nurse,
Like molten hot lead,
Burn into their souls

A remorse long and sore!

They have helped to enthral a
Great land evermore,
They who fled from Cean-Salla!

Alas, for thee, slayer

Of the kings of the Norsemen!
Thou land of sharp swords,
And strong kerns and swift horsemen!
Land ringing with song!

Land, whose abbots and lords,
Whose Heroic and Fair,

Through centuries long,
Made each palace of thine
A new western Walhalla —

Thus to die without sign
On the field of Cean-Salla;

My ship cleaves the wave —
I depart for Iberia —

But, oh! with what grief,
With how heavy and dreary

Sensation of ill!
I could welcome a grave:

My career has been brief,
But I bow to God's will!
Not if now all forlorn,

In my green years, I fall, a
Lone exile, I mourn — •

But I mourn for Cean-Salla!