A FAREWELL TO PATRICK SARSFIELD

Farewell, O Patrick Sarsfield, may luck be on your path,
Your camp is broken up - your work Is marred for years;
But you go to kindle into flame the king of France's wrath,
Though You leave sick Eire in tears.

Och! Ochone!

May the white sun and moon rain glory on your head,
All here, as you are, and holy Man of God.
To you the Saxons owe a many an hour of dread,
In the land you have often trod.

Och! Ochone!

The Son of Mary guard you and bless you to the end!
'Tis altered is the time since your legions were astir,
When, at Cullen, you were hailed as the conquerer and friend,
And you crossed Narrow-Water, near Birr.

Och! Ochone!

I'll journey to the North, over mount, moor, and wave,
'Twas there I first beheld, drawn up in file and line,
The brilliant Irish hosts- they were the bravest of the brave!
But, alas! they scorned to combine!

Och! Ochone!

I saw the royal Boyne, when its billows flashed with blood,
I fought at Graine Og, where a thousand horsemen fell;
On the dark, empurpled field Of Aughrim, too I stood,
On the plain by Tubberdonny's Well.

Och! Ochone!

To the heroes of Limerick, the City of the Fights,
Be my best blessing, borne on the wings of the air,
We had card-playing there, o'er our camp fires at night,
And the Word of Life, too, and prayer.

Och! Ochone!

But, for you, Londonderry, may plague smite and slay
Your people May Ruin desolate you, stone by stone!
Through you a many a gallant youth lies coffinless today,
With the winds for mourner alone!

Och! Ochone!

I climbed the high hill on a fair summer noon,
And saw the Saxon muster, clad in armour, blinding bright,
Oh, rage withheld my hand, or gunsman and dragoon
Should have supped with Satan that night!.

Och! Ochone!

How many a noble soldier, how many a cavalier,
Careered along this road, seven fleeting weeks ago,
With silver-hilted sward, with matchlock, and with spear,
Who now, me bhren, lieth low!

Och! Ochone!

All hail to thee, Beinn Fadeir! But, ah! On thy brow
I see a limping soldier who battled, and who bled.
Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though now
The worthy Is begging his bread!

Och! Ochone!

And Diarmuid! Oh! Diarmuid! he perished In the strife,
His head it was spiked on a halbert high;
His colours they were trampled; he had no chance of life;
If the Lord God himself stood by!

Och! Ochone!

But most, oh! My woe, I lament, and lament
For the ten valiant heroes who dwelt nigh theNore;
And my three blessed brothers! They left me, and they went
To the wars, and returned no more! Geh!

Och! Ochone!

On the Bridge of the Boyne was our first overthrow;
By Slaney, the next, for we battled without rest!
The Third was at Aughrim. Oh, Eire! Thy woe
Is a sword In my bleeding breast!

Och! Ochone!

Oh! the roof above our heads It was barbarously fired,
While the black Orange guns blazed and bellowed around!
And as volley followed valley, Colonel Mitchel inquired
Whether Luan still stood his ground.

Och! Ochone!

But O'Kelly still remains, to defy, and to toil;
He has memories that Nell won't permit him to forget,
And a sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil,
Upon many an Aughrim yet!!

Och! Ochone!

And I never shall believe that my fatherland can fall,
With the Burkes, and the Dukes, and the sons of Royal James;
And Talbot the Captain, and Sarsfield, above all
The beloved of damsels and dames.

Och! Ochone!
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