I would not begrudge you, O'Reilly, to be kinsman to a king, white
bright courts around you, and you lying at your ease; a quiet, well-
learned lady to be settling out your pillow; but it is a great thing
you to die from me when I had given you my love entirely.

It is no wonder a broken heart to be with your father and your mother;
the white-breasted mother that crooned you, and you a baby; your wedded
wife, O thousand treasures, that never set out your bed; and the day
you went to Trabawn, how well it failed you to come home.

Your eyes are with the eels, and your lips with the crabs; and your
two white hands under the sharp rule of the salmon. Five pounds I would
give to him that would find my true love. Ochone! it is you are a sharp
grief to young Mary ni-Curtain!




_A Poem Written in Time of Trouble by an Irish Priest Who Had Taken
Orders in France_


My thoughts, my grief! are without strength
My spirit is journeying towards death
My eyes are as a frozen sea
My tears my daily food;
There is nothing in life but only misery.
My poor heart is torn
And my thoughts are sharp wounds within me,
Mourning the miserable state of Ireland.