"Chieftain of Tyrconnell"
di Alfred Perceval Graves (1846-1931)

Sore misery to Erin, that you spread
Your sails for far-off Espan, Hugh the Red!
But sorest doom that on a foreign strand
Quenched your keen eye and from your falt'ring hand
Has struck down the faithful brand.

Who now for us shall sweep the cattle spoil
In bellowing tumult o'er the foamy Foyle?
And till the steers are driven dispersed to sward,
Hurl back, like thee, the Avenger from the ford,
Hugh O'Donnell of the Sword?

Who now upon the plunderers from the Pale
Shall wreck the fiery vengeance of the Gael?
With sudden onslaught strike the Saxon crew
And smite them as you smote them through and through,
Chieftain of Tyrconnell, who?

Last who like thee, with comforts manifold
Shall keep and cherish sick and poor and old?
For ah! thy open ever-flowing store
Of food and drink and clothing maet galore
Fails them now for evermore.