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Page 1 of the poem
By Edward Walsh

There's a feast in the hall where
    Clanawley's chief dwells,
And waking of wild harps and
    sounding of shells;
Unclasp'd are the helmets - the
    wavy plumes now
Bend graceful no more o'er the
    warriors brow;
The chiefs are all waiting - did
    any behold
The princely McAuliffe, proud
   lord of the wold.

The night breeze sings cold o'er
    Clonfert's ancient tomb;
Daloo ripples dark in his wavy
    woods gloom;
The guests are impatient -
    McAuliffe doth hunt
The red mountain deer as a
    chieftain is wont,
Or urging the chase of a wolf
    from the plain
To his lair in the cliff, doth
    McAuliffe remain.

Ah! no, for his tall dogs in 
    idleness howl;
Beyond them the gaunt wolf may
    fearlessly prowl.
The long hunting spear, the loud
    hunting horn,
No more in the chase o'er the
    wild heath are borne -
For the chase of the grey wolf
    or red mountain deer
Doth least in the thoughts of
    the chieftain appear.

For Ellen - the heiress of all
    that divide
The banks of the Daloo from
    Allo's loud tide
Is dead. Oh! bethink ye,that
    bosom's dismay;
Which consigns all it loves to the
    cold reptile's sway;
And never did love's brilliant
    fetter entwine
More true hearts, McAuliffe,
    than Ellen's and thine.

There's ringing of hands - and
    the mourners'shrill cry,
And the wild 'ullalu' of the
    keenet are nigh,
And the handmaids have strew'd
    early flowers on the grave
Where Kilcorcoran's alders in
    solitude wave;
But an old hoary wizard of
    vision hath told
A tale which the chieftain
    forbears to unfold.

And whispers are heard, that fair
    Ellen survives
Where spells of the fairy bind
    enchanted lives;
That the bier where the mourners
    had poured their despair
Held nought but the semblance
    of young Ellen there.
I wish not what tale did the grey
    wizard tell,
The breast of the chief holds it
    closely and well.

But nightly, since Ellen was
    wrapped in her shroud,
Though the lightning may gleam
    and the  fierce storm be loud,
And tho' Daloo's dark water his
    green valley fills;
Increas'd by the streams of his
    cloud-cover'd hills,
Tho' blue flash, wild tempest, and
    wilder waves flight,
He seeks yon lone crag on the
    pine- covered height.


There's a feast in the hall - but he
    climbs the rude steep
When the shadows of darkness
    are silent and deep;
The breeze that had swept yonder
    home of the dead,
Was bending the pipe on the
    peak's rugged head,
Where rose through the gloom  on
    his wonder-struck eye,
A palace where fairies hold
    festival high. (continue)

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