Corpus of Electronic Texts Edition
Welcome to the Prince of Ossory (Author: James Clarence Mangan)

p.63

1
  1. Lift . . . up the drooping head,
    Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
    Her blood yet boundeth red
    Through the myriad veins of Erin.
    No! no! she is not dead,
    Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
    Lo! she redeems
    The lost years of bygone ages—
    New glory beams
    Henceforth on her History's pages!
    Her long penitential Night of Sorrow
    Yields at length before the reddening Morrow!
  2. You . . . heard the thunder-shout,
    Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
    Saw lightning streaming out
    O'er the purple hills of Erin!
    And bide you yet in doubt,
    Meehal Dubh Mac-Goilla-Kierin?
    O! doubt no more!
    Through Ulidia's voiceful valleys,
    On . . . Shannon's shore,
    Freedom's burning spirit rallies,
    Earth and Heaven unite in sign and omen2
    Bodeful of the downfall of our foemen.

    3. p.64

  3. Thurot commands the North,
    Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
    Louth sends her heroes forth
    To hew down the foes of Erin!
    Swords gleam in field and gorth,3
    Up! up! my friend!
    There's a glorious goal before us;
    Here will we blend
    Speech and soul in this grand chorus—
    'By the Heaven that gives us one more token,
    We will die, or see our shackles broken!'
  4. Charles4 leaves the Grampian hills,
    Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
    Charles, whose appeal yet thrills,
    Like a clarion-blast, through Erin.
    Charles, he whose image fills
    Thy soul, too, Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
    Ten . . . thousand strong,
    His clans move in brilliant order,
    Sure that e'er long
    He will march them o'er the Border,
    While the dark-haired daughters of the Highlands
    Crown with wreaths the Monarch of three islands!
  5. Fill, then, the ale-cup high,
    Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
    Fill!—the bright hour is nigh
    That shall give her own to Erin!

    p.65

    Those who so sadly sigh,
    Even as you, Mac-Giolla-Kierin,
    Henceforth shall sing.
    Hark!—O'er heathery hill and dell come
    Shouts for the King!
    Welcome, our Deliverer! Welcome!
    Thousands this glad night, ere turning bedward,
    Will, with us, drink 'Victory to Charles Edward!'