]> The Mourner's Soliloquy in the Ruined Abbey of Timoleague Abroad one night in loneliness I strolled Machtnadh an Duine Dhoilghiosaich An electronic edition Seághan Ó Coileáin translated by Thomas Furlong Electronic edition compiled by Beatrix Färber School of History, University College Cork First draft. 1545 CELT: Corpus of Electronic Texts: a project of University College Cork.
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 Manuscript sources for the Irish poem Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, MS 659 (formerly 24 A 22), "written by Mícheál Ó Horgáin, 1824" (O'Rahilly 213). Maynooth, Mur[phy] 48, p. 66; "this part possibly in the hand of Bishop Murphy; dated 1818 on title-page" (O'Rahilly 213). Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, 24 C 13, p. 81, "written by Rev. Matthew Horgan" (O'Rahilly 213). Editions and Translations Thomas Furlong, 'The Mourner's Soliloquy in the Ruined Abbey of Timoleague', in James Hardiman, Irish Minstrelsy, 235-43. [An English translation in six-line verses.] J. C. Mangan, 'Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of Teach Molaga', The Nation, 8 August 1846. [Reproduced online at https://manganpaper.wordpress.com/2012/10/31/lament-over-the-ruins-of-the-abbey-of-teach-molaga/] Reprinted in John O'Daly, 'The Irish Language Miscellany' [with translation by J. C. Mangan]. Dublin, 1876. John O'Daly, 'The Irish Language Miscellany' [with translation by J. C. Mangan]. (Dublin 1876). Prose [?] translation by Sir Samuel Ferguson, Dublin University Magazine III. 465-6, 1834). Ser., 1860 [p. 71-3]. Verse translation by Sir Samuel Ferguson, Specimens of the early native poetry of Ireland in English metrical translations, ed. Henry Montgomery Riddell. New and enlarged edition (Dublin 1892), 283-286. Reprinted in: A Book of Irish Verse: selected from modern writers with an Introduction and notes by W.B. Yeats> Revised edition (London 1900). T. F. O'Rahilly, Measgra Dánta, poem 59, p. 158-61, which contains an Irish version with modernized spelling (online at CELT in file G402568) and notes p. 213–17. Literature William H. Jeffery, 'The Furlongs of County Wexford', Journal of the Old Wexford Society 6 (1976–77) 73–79. Sean Mythen, Thomas Furlong: The Forgotten Wexford Poet: the Life and Work of Thomas Furlong, 1794–1827 (Ferns 1998). The edition used in the digital edition James Hardiman The Mourner's Soliloquy in the ruined Abbey of Timoleague Irish Minstrelsy, or Bardic Remains of Ireland; with English Poetical Translations James Hardiman London Joseph Robins 1831 2 235, 237, 239, 241, 243

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 Translation by Thomas Furlong (1794–1827). Irish original by Seághan Ó Coileáin, (John Collins or John O'Cullane), of Myross (1754–1817) between 1814 and 1827 The text is in English. romantic poetry 19c Timoleague Abbey translation 2014-02-20 Beatrix Färber ed. TEI header completed; file parsed, SGML and HTML files created. 2014-02-19 Beatrix Färber ed. Text typed in, proofed (1, 2); TEI-conformant XML markup applied; header created; file converted, file parsed. 2014-01 An t-Ollamh Seán Ó Coileáin ed. Copy of Hardiman's and O'Rahilly's edition donated to CELT. The Mourner's Soliloquy in the Ruined Abbey of Timoleague

By Thomas Furlong

 Abroad one night in loneliness I stroll'd, Along the wave-worn beach my footpath lay; Struggling the while with sorrows yet untold, Yielding to cares that wore my strength away: On as I mov'd, my wayward musings ran O'er the strange turns that mark the fleeting life of man. The little stars shone sweetly in the sky; Not one faint murmur rose from sea or shore; The wind with silent wing went slowly by, As tho' some secret on its path it bore: All, all was calm, — tree, flower, and shrub stood still, And the soft moonlight slept on valley and on hill. Sadly and slowly on my path of pain I wander'd, idly brooding o'er my woes; Till full before me on the far-stretched plain, The ruin'd abbey's mouldering walls arose; Where far from crowds, from courts and courtly crimes, The sons of virtue dwelt, the boast of better times. I paused — I stood beneath the lofty door, Where once the friendless and the poor were fed; That hallow'd entrance, that in days of yore Still open'd wide to shield the wanderer's head; The saint, the pilgrim, and the book-learn'd sage, The knight, the travelling one, and the worn man of age. I sat me down in melancholy mood, My furrow'd cheek was resting on my hand; I gazed upon that scene of solitude, The wreck of all that piety had plann'd: To my aged eyes the tears unbidden came, Tracing in that sad spot our glory and our shame. "And oh," cried I, as from my breast the while, The struggling sigh of soul-felt anguish broke; "A time there was, when through this storm-touch'd pile, In other tones the voice of echo spoke; Here other sounds and sights were heard and seen — How alter'd is the place from what it once hath been!" "Here in soft strains the solemn Mass was sung; Through these long aisles the brethren bent their way; Here the deep bell its wonted warning rung, To prompt the lukewarm loitering one to pray; Here the full choir sent forth its stream of sound, And the rais'd censer flung rich fragrance far around." How chang'd the scene! — how lonely now appears The wasted aisle, wide arch, and lofty wall; The sculptur'd shape — the pride of other years, Now darken'd, shaded, sunk and broken all: The hail, the rain, the sea-blown gales have done Their worst, to crown the wreck by impious man begun. Thro' the rent roof the aged ivy creeps; Stretch'd on the floor the skulking fox is found; The drowsy owl beneath the altar sleeps, And the pert daws keep chattering all around; The hissing weasel lurks apart unseen, And slimy reptiles crawl where holy heads have been. In the refectory now no food remains; The dormitory boasts not of a bed; Here rite or sacrifice no longer reigns; Prior — brethren — prayers — and fasts and forms are fled: Of each — of all, here rests not now a trace, Save in these time-bleach'd bones that whiten o'er the place. Oh! that such power to baseness was decreed; Oh! that mischance such triumphs should supply; That righteous heaven should let the vile succeed, And leave the lonely virtuous one to die! Oh! justice, in the struggle where wert thou? Thy foes have left this scene chang'd as we see it now. I too have chang'd, — my days of joy are done, My limbs grow weak, and dimness shades mine eye; Friends — kindred — children, dropping one by one, Beneath these walls now mouldering round me lie. My look is sad, my heart has shrunk in grief, Oh! death, when wilt thou come and lend a wretch relief.