Page:Irish minstrelsy, vol 2 - Hardiman.djvu/101

Rh 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.