Seaṫrún Céitinn cct. (circ. 1640)

Caoin ṫú féin, a ḋuine ḃoiċt,
De ċaoineaḋ ċáiċ coisg do ṡúil;
Ná caoin inġean, ná caoin mac
Dár cuireaḋ fá ḃrat i n-úir.

Caoin ar dtús do ṗeacaḋ féin
Ré ndul ins an gcré dod’ ċorp;
Caoin, ós éigean duit a híoc,
An ṗáis fuair Críost ar do ṡon.

Caoin ar ḟuiling ar do sgaṫ
Críost, do ċeannuiġ cáċ i gcrann,
Caoin a ḋá láiṁ ‘s a ḋá ċois,
Is a ċroiḋe do sgoilt an dall.

Raċaiḋ cáċ uile fá seaċ:
Ná caoin neaċ dá raċaiḋ uait,
Seaċ ar leagaḋ riaṁ i gcré,
Doilġe ḋuit tú féin, a ṫruaiġ.

Ar ċruṫuiġ láṁ ḋeas an tSaoir
Idir ṁaca, mnaoi, is fir,
Ní ḟuil againn truaġ ná tréan
Naċ raċaiḋ uainn d’éag mar sin.

Dá ḃfaicfeá a ndeaċaiḋ uait,
Mar atáid na sluaiġ so fúinn,
Tar a ndeaċaiḋ riaṁ i gcré,
Do ċaoinfeá ṫú féin ar dtúis.

Ar ṡléiḃ Ṡióin, lá na sluaġ,
Buḋ duiḃe ‘na gual do ġné,
Anois giḋ áluinn do ċruṫ,
Muna gcaoinis ‘ḃfus ṫú féin.

Teaċtaire Dé ó’s é an bás,
Dá raiḃ ort-sa ‘na ċás ċruaiḋ,
Do-ġéanaḋ tú ṫ’ aiṁleas féin,
Is aiṁleas an té do ċuaiḋ.

Truaġ sin, a ḃoċtáin gan céill,
Dá dtuigṫeá ṫú féin mar taoi,
Do léigfeá de ċaoineaḋ ċáiċ,
‘S do ḃeiṫeá go bráṫ ag caoi.

By Geoffrey Keating (circ. 1640)

Keen thyself, poor wight:
From weeping others restrain thine eyes;
Keen not daughter, keen not son
That hath been shrouded in clay.

Keen first thine own sin
Ere thy body goeth into dust;
Keen, since thou must pay for it,
The passion Christ suffered for thy sake.

Keen the sufferings on thy behalf
Of Christ, Who redeemed all upon a tree,
Keen His two hands and His two feet,
And His heart which the blind man clave.

Every single one shall go:
Yet keen none that shall pass from thee,—
Beyond all that have ever been laid in earth,
Thine own case, poor wretch, toucheth thee most nearly.

Of all that the Creator’s right hand hath made,
Of boys, of women, and of men,
There is none, weak or mighty,
But shall pass unto his death.

Couldst thou see all that have gone from thee,
As these hosts beneath us are,
Before all that have ever gone into earth,
Thou wouldst keen thyself first.

On Sion hill, on the day of the hosts,
Thy face shall be blacker than a coal,
Though fair thy aspect now,—
Unless thou keen thyself while here.

Since death is the messenger of God,
Shouldst thou repine at his doings,
Thou wouldst achieve thine own misfortune
And the misfortune of him that hath gone.

Alas, poor witless wight,
Didst thou understand thyself as thou art,
Thou wouldst cease to keen for others
And yet wouldst be weeping forever!