Song of the Penal Days

Ye dark-haired youths and elders hoary,
List to the wandering harper's song.
My clairseach weeps my true love's story,
In my true love's native tongue :
She's bound and bleeding 'neath the oppressor,
Few her friends and fierce her foe,
And brave hearts cold who would redress her—
Mo chraobhin aoibhinn alga, O !

My love had riches once and beauty,
Till want and sorrow paled her cheek ;
And stalwart hearts for honour's duty —
They're crouching now, like cravens sleek.
O Heaven ! that e'er this day of rigour
Saw sons of heroes abject, low —
And blood and tears thy face disfigure,
Mo chraobhin aoibhinn alga, O !

I see young virgins step the mountain
As graceful as the bounding fawn,
With cheeks like heath-flower by the fountain,
And breasts like downy ceanabhan.
Shall bondsmen share those beauties ample?
Shall their pure bosoms' current flow
To nurse new slaves for them that trample ?
Mo chraobhin aoibhinn alga, O !

Around my dairseaclis speaking measures
Men, like their fathers tall, arise ;
Their heart the same deep hatred treasures —
I read it in their kindling eyes !
The same proud brow to frown at danger —
The same long coit tin's graceful flow —
The same dear tongue to curse the stranger —
Mo chraobhin aoibhinn alga, O !

I'd sing ye more, but age is stealing
Along my pulse and tuneful fires ;
Far bolder woke my chord, appealing,
For craven Sheamus, to your sires.
Arouse to vengeance, men of bravery,
For broken oaths — for altars low—
For bonds that bind in bitter slavery —
Mo chraobhin aoibhinn alga, O !