Lo!
Ulster's Prince, the proud O'Neill
(1)
The haughty and the turbulent Shane,
Who in many a fray 'gainst Saxon sway
Oft triumphed over piles of slain,
Had resolved anew his steel to improve,
And the force of his might employ
In a campaign hot with the Antrim Scot,
In the lands of Sorley Boy.
"This Ulster land where upon we stand
I have won by my shining sword
And they who gainsay my Princely sway
Must deal with Tir-Owen's lord."
"This
Scottish chief shall with sorrow and grief
Rue that he ever crossed my path,"
By my sword so
bright, he shall feel the might
Of Hy Niall's Royal wrath."
(2)
Thus spoke proud Shane to his princely train
The chiefs of the Bloody Hand, (3)
Who from Clan-na-boy to Achnacloy
Had ranged them with battle-brand
At their Prince's call, with their clansmen all
Fierce warriors brave and leal
Gallowglass and kern from Bann to Erne
To battle for great O'Neill.
So
from Fedan's plain with his host marched Shane
For the fire of their ardour was hot
To in combat engage and their fury assuage
In slaughter upon the Scot
Their course they keep o'er plain and steep
They have forded the Lagan's tide
And o'er Moira's plain they surge amain
And have reached Lough Neagh's dark side;
The sun's bright beam deflects its gleam
on their lines of flashing steel,
While brave in the van waves the Red Right Hand
The banner of proud O'Neill.
From
the
mountains blue, the Scots they view
The advance of O'Neill's array,
And swift runners them, from glen to glen
Sped quickly on their way
To summon the clan, each fighting man
Of great Somerled's
warrior breed (4)
From hillside and vale, from woodland and dale
from mountain and valley and mead;
From Dunluce's towers to Glenarm's fair bowers
The fiery cross is raised
And from high Benmore and Torr's dark shore
The signal fires are blazed. (5)
The
waves of Moyle are crimsoned dyed
With the glare of each beacon fire,
Which call their kinsmen from many an isle
From Barra to bleak Cantire
To hasten o'er to the Irish shore
To aid them come woe or weal
In battle array 'gainst the power and sway
Of the arrogant, proud O'Neill
Oh, many a sail is spread to the gale
As
from the isles away
Their galleys glide on the ocean tide
And
head for Port Brittas bay.
(6)
But
ere day had waned, O'Neill had gained
A
victory against the Scot,
Though Sorley's guard fought fierce and
hard
In
that bloody skirmish hot;
And soon in his keep by the Northern sea
Came
tidings to Sorley Boy,
That O'Neill had pierced his way to the Glens
Through the passes at Knockbay
And Layde and Ballyeamon have felt
The
might of his ruthless ire
And cabin and hall at Uaimh Aderg (7)
He
has raised with sword and fire
But
Clandonnell's men from mountain and glen
Thick
muster them for the fray.
And the pibroch is screaming its note of
war
At
the dawn of Bealtaine day; (8)
McDonnell's banner is flauntin the breeze,
While
around it swift and strong
His faithful clansmen from the Glens
To
their chieftain's aid they throng;
And Sorley Boy he beholds with
joy
From
the summit of Grey Benmore
His kinsmen appear, and their galleys
steer
Their
course for the Antrim shore.
But
the waves run high, ere the land is nigh
Or
Port Brittas bay be won
And half of their fleet has for anchorage
beat
To
the haven of Cushendun.
But Carrach storm - cast till the conflict
be past (9)
Must
bide him on Rathlin's shore
With nine-hundred trusty warriors brave
That
his ships from the Isles had bore;
Oh, wild he may rail and the
tempests' fierce gale
Which
holds to the strand each keel,
For his sword shall not flash like
lightning flash
In
the battle against O'Neill.
But
at Cushendun the shore they have won
And
now from their ships they land
In tartan array, for the red battle
fray
With
Lochaber axe and brand.
Turnamona's height is gleaming bright
With
the flashing of spear and glaive
And their warpipe loud 'tis
shrilling proud
By
Corrymeela's wave.
From Barra to bleak Cantire they've come
O'er
the Moyle's tempestuous miles.
From each Highland glen, that muster
of men
'Neath
James the Lord of the Isles.
'Tis
the fated Lord of the Isles who comes
Once
more to his kinsmen's aid,
And many another of Albin's chiefs
Around him stand array'd.
There is Angus brave from Isla's wave
The
chief of the bearin high
And
Carrach's sons and Galta's sons
And
the youthful Lord of Skye. (10)
Oh,
many a chieftain of Scottish fame
Has
come with targe and steel
Clan Donnell to aid, in battle arrayed
'Gainst Shane, the Proud O'Neill.
To
the south afar gleams the omen of war
For
the sky with lurid glare
O'er Glenariffs dells, the tidings tells
That
O'Neill's host is there;
And soon to their Lord from Sorley comes
word
That
their forces they must unite
For weal or woe he has willed it so
On
Glentaisi's field to fight;
Oh, seldon I ween, has the hill of Cross
Skreen
Seen
such muster of warrior men
As this tartan array from the isles away
Who
are marching to Taisi's glen.
The
meridian day sheds forth its ray
On
the course of these fiery Gaels,
As swiftly adown to Sorley's town
The
march through Culfeightrim's vales;
And soon they decry Dunaneeny
high.
And
to the west away The turretted keep of fair
Ceann-bann (11)
Where
the waves of Bricain play
Past the Abbey grey they have made thier
way
They
have crossed the Margie's ford
And now for the fight their forces
unite
With
Dunancenie's lord. (12)
Now
the sun's red rays in a radiant blaze
O'er
Carndhu sunk down
And sheds his light o'er vale and height
By
Sorley's ancient town;
He catches the gleam with his waning beam
Of
many a sword and targe
While Clan Donnell's men along the glen
Are
guarding the river's marge,
For their scouts have seen from the
heights of Breen
The
host of O'Neill deploy.
And the flash of each lance mark their swift
advance
'Gainst the strongholds of Sorley Boy.
O'er
Ardagh braes in the evening haze
There
surges a wave of steel
As like ocean tide adown Glenshesk side
Sweeps the host of proud O'Neill;
See Coul's height, how it flashes
bright
With
the glitter of many a brand,
While like meteor star in the van afar
Waves
the flag of the Bloody Hand;
Past the mountainy sward of high Barard
A
swift detour they made
And their spears bright gleam as their
cohorts are seen
O'er
the slopes that fringe Knocklayde.
To
the heights of Bromore has the vanguard bore
And
Dromeene's hazel glen,
Is bright with the gleam of falchion and skeen
And
the corslets of mail-clad men.
Ere the night falls down, they have
fronted the town
And
soon the
bevanac's light
By the Taisi's banks mark the hostile ranks
That
await the coming fight.
Oh, many I trow, who are resting now
By
buckler and lance and shield
Ere to-morrow be sped shall have found
a bed
On
Glen Taisi's gory field.
Lo!
the night is passed and the sun at last
From
the east throws a golden ray,
Soon the glenside hums, as
the dawning
comes
With
the clamour of war's array.
See the spears they gleam in the morning
beam
Oh,
ne'er did the glen of the ghost (13)
Stage
such a stirring sight as Tir-Owen's might
And
Clandonnell's serried host.
Their lines flash bright as
they marshal
for fight
And
the God of Battles smiles
On each warlike brand of the Red Right
Hand
And
the Clansmen from the Isles.
On,
on ye Gods! by the Taisi's banks
They've met with a clang of steel.
Now fiercely arise the battle cries
Of
McDonnell and proud O'Neill,
Full soon each mead, that like
carpet spread
Its
vesture of emerald wore
Is changed anew to a ruddy hue
With
kerne and clansmen's gore.
Fierce, fierce is the fight and red, red
tonight
Will
the Taisi's water flow
Whilst the Banshee's yell by the Margie's
swell
Shall
echo the tale of woe.
Loud
the hills resound with the conflict's sound
'Tis
parry and thrust and blow,
And push of the pike as each man alike
Strives to lay his foeman low.
Fast the Islesmen charge with sword
and targe
And
long Lochaber axe
And the host of O'Neill for a moment reel
Before their fierce attack
Then, then like a rock they withstand the
shock
And
as spray is backward thrown
The rush of the Scot is brought to
nought
By
the spearmen of Tir-Owen.
Tho'
they rally again, 'tis vain, 'tis vain
They
falter, they fall, they die;
The sword with their gore is all
crimsoned o'er
Their
lifeblood their tartans dye.
Now useless the targe 'gainst that
counter-charge
Of
fierce gallowglass and kerne
And with furious rush and pike's swift
push
Dash
the clans from Bann and Erne;
Like the thunder's clash and
the
lightning's flash
To
the cry of "Lamh Derg Abu" (14)
O'Neill's mountaineers with their long bright spears
Have
broken the centre through.
"On,
on," cried O'Neill, "On Clan-na-Boy
Forward McHIugh, McTeague -"
And with fury hot. they sweep the Scot
From
the slopes of green Kilcraig
To
Drum-Mullins height red surges the
fight (15)
Nor
yet do the Islesmen yield
Though their bravest fall in their gory
pall
Still
the living contest the field.
But 'tis hopeless, 'tis done, for as
noonday's sun
Sheds
his light o'er height and lea.
Overpowered and beat, and in swift
retreat
See
the Scots, they flee, they flee!
Then
away, away - all in wild dismay,
Their
broken columns reel.
While fast on their track, like a vengeful pack
Dash
the warriors of O'Neill.
To the skies arise their exultant cries
As
each foeman is laid low;
Now Angus is slain, and Sorley is ta'en,
And
slaughtered is John Roe.
And sore wounded and captive, the Lord of
the Isles
James, of predestined doom (16)
Is
borne away for a future day
To
perish 'mid dungeon's gloom.
The
Red Hand flies 'midst triumphant cries
O'er
the town of Sorley Boy,
While the hills around re-echo the sound
Of
the victors exulting joy.
At the conqueror's feet in dark defeat
Clan
Colla lies crushed in gore (17)
Their
chieftains brave who have crossed the wave
Shall
return to the Isles no more.
On the breezes swell, hark! the tolling
bell
From
the Margies holy fame (18)
Where
the brown-clad brothers pray for the souls
Of
the dead in the battle slain.
Oh!
the maids of the Isles, no more with smiles
Shall
welcome them to the shore
Where are Carrach's sons and Galta' sons
They'll return to dark Mull no more
Where is Angus brave from Isla's
wave (19)
No
more shall galley's track
Be seen on the foam nor his island home
E'er
welcome the hero back
And MacCrimmon may play "The Cumhadh na
Cloinne" (20)
For
the chief of the eagle eye
His youthful lord will ne'er return
To
the misty hills of Skye.
The
moon's pale beams throw their fitful gleams
O'er
broken spear and shield,
And the silent dead, who in mournful spread
Bestrew the battlefield
The banshee's wail harsh sobs on the gale
As in
cadence sad and deep,
She keeps for the men, who in Taisi's glen
Are
sleeping their long last sleep
And tradition shall tell how they
fought and fell
'Mid
the turmoil of hate and steel
In the blood red fray, when Clan
Donnell's array
Was
conquered by proud O'Neill.
