Oh, sweet Slievenamon, you ‘re my darling and pride,
With your soft swelling bosom and mien like a bride,
How oft have I wandered, in sunshine and shower,
From dark Kileavalla to lonely Glenbower;
Or spent with a light heart the long summer’s day,
‘Twixt Seefen and the Clocdeach above Kile-a-tlea;
But than wood, glen, or torrent, to me far more dear,
Is thy crag-crowned forehead, old Carrig-Mocklear!
For there gathered stout hearts in brave Ninety-Eight,
Undaunted, unflinching, grim death to await;
And there did I hope to behold once again,
Rushing down from the mountain and up from the plain,
The men of Slieveardagh, to rally once more
In the holy old cause, like our fathers before;
And, O saints! how I prayed that the Saxon might hear
The first shout of the onset from Carrig-Mocklear!
Yet a maiden might sleep the rough granite between,
On the flower-spangled sward, ‘tis so sunny and green;
‘Tis thus you will find in the stormiest breast
Some spot fresh and warm, where love might be guest;
And how like a bless’d dream did one autumn eve glide,
With my first and my only love there by my side?
Ah! no wonder, no wonder I gaze with a tear
On the rocks and the flowers of old Carrig-Moclear!
Ye tell, ye lone rocks, where the Rebel’s pike gleamed;
Of the wrong unavenged, and the vow unredeemed;
And thoughts of old times, with their smiles and their showers,
Come back to my soul with the breath of their flowers.
But bright hopes of my youth, here forever we part—
Now I feel dark despair fills your place in my heart—
For ne’er may I see the Green Banner uprear,
Nor thy smile, my lost Mary, on Carrig-Mocklear!