Yeats' FAIRY AND FOLK
TALES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY
For the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight, of Kerry, who
was killed in Flanders, 1642.
FROM THE IRISH, BY CLARENCE MANGAN
There was lifted up one voice of woe,
One lament of more than
Through the wide South to and fro,
For a fallen
In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,
looked out upon the midnight air?
My own soul was all as
As I knelt in prayer.
O'er Loch Gur, that night, once--twice-yea, thrice--
wail of anguish for the Brave
That half curled into ice
Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn
Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,
And Mogeely's Phantom
Mourned the Geraldine!
Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains
Shrieks and sighs were
blended many hours,
And Fermoy in fitful strains
Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly,
concert, and their piercing keen
Woke wondering life the
Glens of Inchiqueen.
From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore
There was fear; the traders
Gathered up their golden store,
And prepared to
For, in ship and hall from night till morning,
the first faint beamings of the sun,
All the foreigners heard the
Of the Dreaded One!
"This," they spake, "portendeth death to us,
If we fly not
swiftly from our fate!
Self-conceited idiots! thus
Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters
laments like those by shore and sea!
Not for churls with souls like
Waileth our Banshee!
For the high Milesian race alone
Ever flows the music of her
For slain heir to bygone throne,
And for Chief laid
Hark! ... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping
she near me now, as then?
Or was but the night-wind
Down the hollow glen?