Alas! for Oisin--dire the tale!
No music in thy voice I hear;
Not for thy wrathful God I wail,
But for my Fenians dear.
Thy God! a rueful God I trow,
Whose love is earned by want and woe!
Since came thy dull psalm-singing crew,
How rapid away our pastimes flew,
And all that charmed the soul!
Where now are the royal gifts of gold,
The flowing robe with its satin fold,
And the heart-delighting bowl?
Where now the feast, and the revel high,
And the jocund dance and sweet minstrelsy,
And the steed loud-neighing in the morn,
With the music sweet of hound and horn,
And well-armed guards of coast and bay?
All, all like a dream have passed away;
And now we have clerks with their holy qualms,
And books, and bells, and eternal psalms,
And fasting--that waster gaunt and grim,
That strips of all beauty both body and limb.