The Jail of Clonmel

O, it's one year tomorrow my home I deserted and went to Ard Pádraig my hat done in laces. The Whiteboys were there tormenting the cattle —now I'm grieving and lonely in the jail of Clonmel.

My bridle and saddle are loaned out a long time, my hurley is slanted in under my bed, my ball hit about by the boys of the valley —I who'd hit a goal-puck as high as the next!

Kerrymen, pray for me. I love your soft voices, nor thought I would never return to you living. But our three heads will soon be on spikes for a show in the snows of the night and all weathers that come.

If you go to Uibh ráthach take the news to my people I'm condemned on this sod and won't live beyond Friday. Get the things for my wake and a fine coffin round me —here's an end of Ó Dónaill and pray for him always.