(IRELAND'S LAMENT FOR LORD EDWARD.)
Underneath the shrouding stone,
Where you lie in Death alone,
Can you hear me calling, calling,
In a wild hot gush of woe?
'Tis for you my tears are falling–
For you mo Chraoibhín Cno!

When you stood up in the Green
As beseemed the Geraldine,
Slender sword a-glancing, glancing,
Over you the tender skies,
How the warrior-joy kept dancing
In your brave bright eyes.

''Stor,' I said, 'A stor mo chroidhe,
Hope of Mine and Hope of Me,
Take our honour to your keeping,
Bare your swift blade to the Dawn.
Freedom's voice hath roused from sleeping
Máirín-ní-Cullinán.'

So I dreamt the Day had come,
Now your ardent lips are dumb,
And the sword is rusty, rusty,
Through a hundred weary years;
All the winds are blowing gusty
With a storm of tears.

''Stor,' I cry, above your bed,
Where I kneel uncomforted–
'Feel you not the battle-anger,
Shake the Nations of the World?
While amid the stress and clangour,
Still my Flag is furled.'

'Were you here, O Geraldine,
This oblivion had not been.'
Thus I mourn you, pining, pining,
For the gallant heart long gone,
Whose love was as a true star shining,
To Máirín-ní-Cullinán.'