Irish Minstrelsy/Volume 2/Part 3/John O'Dwyer of the Glen

JOHN O'DWYER OF THE GLEN.¹

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

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Blithe the bright dawn found me.
Rest with strength had crown'd me.
Sweet the birds sung round me,
Sport was all their toil.

The horn its clang was keeping,
Forth the fox was creeping,
Round each dame stood weeping,
O'er that prowler's spoil.

Hark, the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling.
Scenes and sights appalling
Mark the wasted soil.

War and confiscation
Curse the fallen nation;
Gloom and desolation
Shade the lost land o'er.

Chill the winds are blowing,
Death aloft is going;
Peace or hope seems growing
For our race no more.

Hark the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling,
Scenes and sights appalling
Throng our blood-stained shore.

Where's my goat to cheer me.
Now it plays not near me;
Friends no more can hear me;
Strangers round me stand.

Nobles once high-hearted,
From their homes have parted,
Scatter'd, scar'd, and started
By a base-born band.

Hark the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling;
Scenes and sights appalling
Thicken round the land.

Oh! that death had found me
And in darkness bound me,
Ere each object round me
Grew so sweet, so dear.

Spots that once were cheering.
Girls beloved endearing.
Friends from whom I'm steering,
Take this parting tear.

Hark, the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling;
Scenes and sights appalling
Plague and haunt me here.

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