Classic Poem

My heart is withered and my health is gone!
For they, who were not easy put upon,
Masters of mirth, and of fair clemency,
Masters of wealth, and gentle charity,
They are all gone!

Mac Carthy Mor is dead!
Mac Carthy of the Lee is finished
Mac Carthy of Kanturk joined clay to clay,
And gat him gone, and bides as deep as they!

Their years, their gentle deeds, their flags are furled!
And deeply down, under the stiffened world,
In oaken chests are kings and princes thrust,
To crumble, day by day, into the dust
A mouth might puff at! Nor is left a trace
Of those who did of grace all that was grace!

O Wave of Cliona, cease thy bellowing!
And let mine ears forget a while to ring
At thy long, lamentable, misery!
The great are dead indeed! The great are dead!
And I, in little time, will stoop my head
And put it under, and will be forgot
With them, and be with them, and, thus, be not!

Ease thee! Cease thy long keening! Cry no more!
End is! And here is end! And end is sore!
And to all lamentation be there end!

If I might come on thee, O howling friend!
Knowing that sails were drumming on the sea
Westward to Eire, and that help would be
Trampling for her upon a Spanish deck,
I'd ram thy lamentation down thy neck.