AN GAODHAL.
15I
loosened by the wet, which they did not till then
receive. It was a great grief to his companions
that they could not bring him any further ; and
so they bade him farewell, and left him their bles-
sing. He sent his servant to a certain gentleman
of the noble tribes of the province of Leinster, who
lived in a castle in the neighborhood, to know
whether he could afford them shelter or protection.
His name was Felim O'Thuathal, and he was pre-
viously a friend to Hugh, as he thought, for he
had gone to visit him on one occasion in his pris-
on in Dublin, when they formed a mutual friend-
ship with each other. The messenger proceeded
to the place where Felim was, and stated to him
the embassy on which he came. Felim was glad
at his arrival, and promised that he would do all
the good he could for Hugh ; but his friends and
kindred would not allow him to conceal him, from
fear of the English government. These learned
that he was in the wood, as we have said, and the
people who had heard that he was in the wood went
in search of him, and dispersed with their troops
to track him. When it was clear to Felim that
Hugh would be discovered, he and his kinsmen
resolved to seize upon him themselves, and bring
him back to the Council in the city. This was ac¬
cordingly done: When Hugh arrived in Dublin,
the Council was rejoiced at his return to them,
for they made nothing or light of all the other
prisoners and hostages that had escaped from them
He was again put into the same prison, and iron
fetters were put on him as tightly as possible, and
they watched and guarded him as well as they
could. His escape, thus attempted, and his re-
capture became known throughout the land of
Erin, at which (tidings) a great gloom came over
the Gaels."
Traslation of " Bláth Bruinnioll” on
page 145.
THE FLOWER OF ALL MAIDENS.
O! flower of all maidens for beauty
Fair bosomed and rose-lipped and meek,
My heart is your slave and your booty,
And droops overpowered and weak.
Your clustering raven black tresses,
Curl richly and gloss ly round.
Blest he who shall win your caresses,
Sweet blossom all down to the ground.
I have loved you, oh mildest and fairest,
With love that could scarce be more warm;
I have loved you, oh brightest and rarest
Not less for your mind than your form;
l’ve adored you since ever I met you
O rose without briar or stain,
And if e'er I forsake or forget you,
Let love be ne'er trusted again.
My bright one you are till I perish,
O, might I but call you my wife,
My treasure my bliss whom I'll cherish
With love to the close of my life.
My secrets shall rest in your bosom,
And yours in my heart shall remain
And if e'er they be told, O sweet blossom,
May none be e'er whispered again,
O! loveliest do not desert me,
My earliest love was for you,
And if thousands of woes should beget me
To you would I prove myself true.
Through my life you have been my consoler,
My comforter — never in vain,
Had you failed to extinguish my dolor,
I should ever have languished in pain.
O fond one I pine in dejection,
My bosom is pierced to the core,
Deny me not love your affection,
And mine shall be yours evermore.
As I chose you from even the beginning
Look not on my love with disdain,
If you slight me as hardly worth winning,
May maid ne'er again have a swain.
O, you who have robbed me of pleasure,
Will you with your mind and your charms
Scorn one who has wit without measure,
And take a mere dolt to your arms.
Your beauty O damsel believe me
Is not for a clown to adore,
O if you desert or deceive me
May lover ne'er bow to you more.
Yours am I my loveliest wholly,
O heed not the blind and the base,
Who say that because of my folly
I'll never have wealth, luck or grace.
How much the poor creatures mistake me
I'll yet have green acres and gold,
But O if you coldly forsake me
I'll soon be laid under the mould.
"Strange that a noble, generous land,
Enabling others to withstand
The foreign warrior's fierce command,
Should not itself be free!
Strange that a warrior, bold and brave,
Should o’er the foe his banner wave,
Yet reap no fruit from victory!
No matter what the bar to fame,
Nor how disqualified the claim, —
Erin has sent her warriors bright
To win the laurels of the fight;
From him, the chief and champion bold,*
Down to the simple peasant name
Whose whole nobility is fame,
He who on Barossa's height
Stopped the eagle in its flight,
And spurned its crest of gold,
From that to bloody Waterloo,
Where Irishmen were plenty, too,
Not, not a trophy of the day
Which Erin did not bear away.
