Dirge on the Death of Art O'Leary

My closest and dearest!From the first day I saw youFrom the top of the market-house,My eyes gave heed to you,My heart gave affection to you,I fled from my friends with you,Far from my home with you,No lasting sorrow this to me.

Thou didst bring me to fair chambers,Rooms you had adorned for me;Ovens were reddened for me,Fresh trout were caught for me,Roast flesh was carved for meFrom beef that was felled for me;On beds of down I layTill the coming of the milking-time,Or so long as was pleasing to me.

Rider of the white palm!With the silver-hilted sword!Well your beaver hat became youWith its band of graceful gold;Your suit of solid homespun yarnWrapped close around your form;Slender shoes of foreign fashion,And a pin of brightest silverFastened in your shirt.As you rode in stately wiseOn your slender steed, white-faced,After coming over seas,Even the Saxons bowed before youBowed down to the very ground;Not because they loved you wellBut from deadly hate;For it was by them you fell,Darling of my soul.

My friend and my little calf!Offspring of the Lords of Antrim,And the chiefs of Immokely!Never had I thought you dead,Until there came to me your mareHer bridle dragged beside her to the ground;Upon her brow your heart-blood splashed,Even to the carven saddle flowing downWhere you were wont to sit or stand.I did not stay to cleanse it--I gave a quick leap with my handsUpon the wooden stretcher of the bed;A second leap was to the gate,And the third leap upon thy mare.

In haste I clapped my hands together,I followed on your tracksAs well as I could,Till I found you laid before me deadAt the foot of a lowly bush of furze;Without pope, without bishop,Without cleric or priestTo read a psalm for thee;But only an old bent wasted croneWho flung over thee the corner of her cloak.

My dear and beloved one!When it will come to me to reach our home,Little Conor, of our love,And Fiac, his toddling baby-brother,Will be asking of me quicklyWhere I left their dearest father?I shall answer them with sorrowThat I left him in Kill Martyr;They will call upon their father;He will not be there to answer.

My love and my chosen one!When you were going forward from the gate,You turned quickly back again!You kissed your two children,You threw a kiss to me.You said, "Eileen, arise now, be stirring,And set your house in order,Be swiftly moving.I am leaving our home,It is likely that I may not come again."I took it only for a jestYou used often to be jesting thus before.

My friend and my heart's love!Arise up, my Art,Leap on thy steed,Arise out to MacroomAnd to Inchegeela after that;A bottle of wine in thy grasp,As was ever in the time of thy ancestors.Arise up, my Art,Rider of the shining sword;Put on your garments,Your fair noble clothes;Don your black beaver,Draw on your gloves;See, here hangs your whip,Your good mare waits without;Strike eastward on the narrow road,For the bushes will bare themselves before you,For the streams will narrow on your path,For men and women will bow themselves before youIf their own good manners are upon them yet,But I am much a-feared they are not now.

Destruction to you and woe,O Morris, hideous the treacheryThat took from me the man of the house,The father of my babes;Two of them running about the house,The third beneath my breast,It is likely that I shall not give it birth.

My long wound, my bitter sorrow,That I was not beside theeWhen the shot was fired;That I might have got it in my soft bodyOr in the skirt of my gown;Till I would give you freedom to escape,O Rider of the grey eye,Because it is you would best have followed after them.

My dear and my heart's love!Terrible to me the way I see thee,To be putting our hero,Our rider so true of heart,In a little cap in a coffin!Thou who used to be fishing along the streams,Thou who didst drink within wide hallsAmong the gentle women white of breast;It is my thousand afflictionsThat I have lost your companionship!My love and my darling,Could my shouts but reach theeWest in mighty Derrynane,And in Carhen of the yellow apples after that;Many a light-hearted young horseman,And woman with white spotless kerchiefWould swiftly be with us here,To wail above thy headArt O'Leary of the joyous laugh!O women of the soft wet eyes,Stay now your weeping,Till Art O'Leary drinks his drinkBefore his going back to school;Not to learn reading or music does he go there now,But to carry clay and stones.

My love and my secret thou.Thy corn-stacks are piled,And thy golden kine are milking,But it is upon my own heart is the grief!There is no healing in the Province of Munster,Nor in the Island smithy of the Fians,Till Art O'Leary will come back to me;But all as if it were a lock upon a trunkAnd the key of it gone straying;Or till rust will come upon the screw.

My friend and my best one!Art O'Leary, son of Conor,Son of Cadach, son of Lewis,Eastward from wet wooded glens,Westward from the slender hillWhere the rowan-berries grow,And the yellow nuts are ripe upon the branches;Apples trailing, as it was in my day.Little wonder to myselfIf fires were lighted in O'Leary's country,And at the mouth of Ballingeary,Or at holy Gougane Barra of the cells,After the rider of the smooth grip,After the huntsman unweariedWhen, heavy breathing with the chase,Even thy lithe deerhounds lagged behind.O horseman of the enticing eyes,What happened thee last night?For I myself thoughtThat the whole world could not kill youWhen I bought for you that shirt of mail.

My friend and my darling!A cloudy vision through the darknessCame to me last night,At Cork latelyAnd I alone upon my bed!I saw the wood glen withered,I saw our lime-washed court fallen;No sound of speech came from thy hunting-dogsNor sound of singing from the birdsWhen you were found fallenOn the side of the hill without;When you were found in the clay,Art O'Leary;With your drop of blood oozing outThrough the breast of your shirt.

It is known to Jesus Christ,I will put no cap upon my head,Nor body-linen on my side,Nor shoes upon my feet,Nor gear throughout the house;Even on the brown mare will be no bridle,But I shall spend all in taking the law.I will go across the seasTo speak with the king;But if they will give no heed to me,It is I that will come back againTo seek the villain of the black bloodWho cut off my treasure from me.O Morrison, who killed my hero,Was there not one man in ErinWould put a bullet through you?

The affection of this heart to you,O white women of the mill,For the edged poetry that you have shedOver the horseman of the brown mare.It is I who am the lonely oneIn Inse Carriganane.