"For thy own love's sake thy cruel sorrow smother!"
"M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"
"The women of my keening are unborn yet, little Mother!"
"M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"
"O woman, why weepest thou my death that leads to pardon?"
"M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"
"Happy hundreds, to-day, shall stray through Paradise Garden."
"M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"





CAOINE

(From the eighteenth-century Irish)


Cold, dark, and dumb lies my boy on his bed;
Cold, dark, and silent the night dews are shed;
Hot, swift, and fierce fall my tears for the dead!

His footprints lay light in the dew of the dawn
As the straight, slender track of the young mountain fawn;
But I'll ne'er again follow them over the lawn.

His manly cheek blushed with the sun's rising ray,
And he shone in his strength like the sun at midday;
But a cloud of black darkness has hid him away.