We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not go,
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s cruel blow—
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky—
O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?
Soft as woman’s was your voice, O’Neill! bright was your eye,
O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?
Your troubles are all over, you’re at rest with God on high;
But we’re slaves, and we’re orphans, Owen!—why did you die?’
Thomas Davis.
DE VERE
CLXXIX
THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE
The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;
What made it black but the March wind dry,
And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?
It shall redden the hills when June is nigh!
The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;
What drove her forth but the dragon fly?
In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,
With her mild gold horn, and her slow, dark eye.
The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!
The pine long-bleeding, it shall not die!
This song is secret. Mine ear it passed
In a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.