Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MUNSTER WAR-SONG; 1190, by RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MUNSTER WAR-SONG; 1190, by                    
First Line: Can the depths of the ocean afford you not graves
Last Line: To gorge the young eagles of dark eatharlach!
Subject(s): Nationalism - Ireland


CAN the depths of the ocean afford you not graves,
That you come thus to perish afar o'er the waves --
To redden and swell the wild torrents that flow
Through the valley of vengeance, the dark Eatharlach?

The clangour of conflict o'erburthens the breeze,
From the stormy Sliabh Bloom to the stately Galtees;
Your caverns and torrents are purple with gore,
Sliabh na m-Ban, Gleann Colaich, and sublime Galtee Mor!
The sunburst that slumbered, embalmed in our tears,
Tipperary! shall wave o'er thy tall mountaineers!
And the dark hill shall bristle with sabre and spear,
While one tyrant remains to forge manacles here.

The riderless war-steed careers o'er the plain
With a shaft in his flank and a blood-dripping mane,
His gallant breast labours, and glare his wild eyes!
He plunges in torture -- falls -- shivers -- and dies.

Let the trumpets ring triumph! the tyrant is slain!
He reels o'er his charger deep-pierced through the brain;
And his myriads are flying like leaves on the gale --
But who shall escape from our hills with the tale?

For the arrows of vengeance are show'ring like rain,
And choke the strong rivers with islands of slain,
Till thy waves, 'lordly Sionainn,' all crimsonly flow,
Like the billows of hell, with the blood of the foe.

Ay! the foemen are flying, but vainly they fly --
Revenge with the fleetness of lightning can vie;
And the septs of the mountains spring up from each rock,
And rush down the ravines like wolves on the flock.

And who shall pass over the stormy Sliabh Bloom,
To tell the pale Saxon of tyranny's doom,
When, like tigers from ambush, our fierce mountaineers
Leap along from the crags with their death-dealing spears?
They came with high boasting to bind us as slaves,
But the glen and the torrent have yawned on their graves?
From the gloomy Ard Fionnain to wild Teampoll Mor --
From the Suir to the Sionainn -- is red with their gore.

By the soul of Heremon! our warriors may smile,
To remember the march of the foe through our isle;
Their banners and harness were costly and gay,
And proudly they flashed in the summer sun's ray;

The hilts of their falchions were crusted with gold,
And the gems of their helmets were bright to behold;
By Saint Bride of Cildare! but they moved in fair show --
To gorge the young eagles of dark Eatharlach!





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