By Miss Gore.
"Desolate is the dwelling of Inoina. Silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song
of mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have fallen before us."
Air--Erin go bragh!
Defaced are the halls, where my ancestors revell'd--
Wept a wanderer, sad straying along the sea shore;
Whose dark streaming hair, the wild wind dishevelled,
As she mourned for the days forever gone o'er.
She told of 'Ath O'Connor, that hero of glory,
Whose name long will live in Ireland's story;
Oh! me, while she sung what sadness came o'er me,
To think that such greatness can never be more.
To Connaught she said, go hear of their honor,
Go--hear of their deeds in Ulster, so true;
Go--hear of the valor of every O'Connor,
Who fought for his country and liberty too.
In the psaltery of Tara, their names are recorded,
Their deeds and their actions are there truly worded;
And it tells with what wisdom their lance was awarded,
How they died, as they lived, to Innesfael true.
Thro' thy halls Castle Connor, the harp once with pleasure,
Would tell all the battles my fathers had seen;
Whilst princes have gather'd to list the soft measure,
And recall with delight the days that have been.
Oh! it was sweet while the dewy eve bright'ned,
And the moon over many a proud baron light'ned,
To see ther dark eyes bright, their brave spirits height'ned,
With the thoughts of each glorious long past scene.
I have mourned with my friends, by their false ones forsaken,
I have wept for the death of the gallant and gay,
I have felt every string which holds my heart--breaking
For the laurel crowned victor, by death swept away.
But Erin--I mourn thee, deeper in sorrow,
Which knows not, and never will know of a morrow,
Whilst thou dearest Isle, no peace yet can borrow,
Land of my ancestors, e'en dearer than they.
Sweet Heaven! she cried, Oh save from destruction,
That birth place of heroes, in misery now;
That my own high born kin, once the pride of their nation,
May never be forced 'neath slavery to bow;
So proud are their hearts, and so gallant their nature,
With honor and truth beaming bright in each feature,
Oh! God! shew thy mercy on them for the future;
Seil fother oh Erin--Erin go bragh.
Over the wildwood, and over the billow,
The dark winds shall bear me, thro' yon far Western sea;
This night I will rest by the death drooping willow,
Which mourns all alone in my own Athenree.
Yes, I will rest--'till the day--light is bringing,
Some joy to my soul, while the sweet birds are singing;
She said this and fled—yet the echoes were ringing,
Seil fother Oh Erin--Erin go bragh.
Fine and proud was the form of that youthful stranger,
And dark were her eyes, which no wind could assail;
Whilst each passion fraught glance told how fearless of danger,
Was the heart that long mourned for her wrongs in Australe.
But peace shall return--bright garlands entwining,
No more will she stand in sorrow repining,
No more will she weep while the day is declining,
Like the lily which droops in the night dews pale.
Hunter's Hill's, North Shore, A. Stanhope Gore.
August 2, 1825.
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Australian Thu 8 Sep 1825 p. 3.
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