The Protecting Tree
Of the men of the land of Fal!
What aileth thee,
And why is it that all
About thee grieves?
Alas, O Tree of the Leaves!
Here is thy rhyme:
Thy bloom is lightened;
And if thy fruit be withered
Thy root hath not tightened
At the same time.
Not since the Gael was sold
At Aughrim. Not since to cold,
Dull death went Owen Roe;
Not since the drowning of Clann Adam in the days of Noe
Brought men to hush,
Has such a tale of woe come to us
In such a rush.
The true flower of the blood of the place is fallen:
The true clean-wheat of the Gael is reaped.
Destruction be upon Death,
For he has come and taken from our tree
The topmost blackberry!