Granuaile

All through the north as I walked forth for to view the shamrock plain

I stood awhile where Nature smiles amid the rocks and streams

On a matron mild I cast my eyes beneath a fertile vale

And the song she sang as she walked on was, My poor old Granuaile

Her head was bare and her grey hair over her eyes hung down

Her neck and waist, her hands and feet with iron chains were bound

Her pensive strain and plaintive wail mingled with the evening gale

And the song she sang with mournful tongue was, My poor old Granuaile

The gown she wore was bathed with gore all by a ruffian band

Her lips so sweet that monarchs kissed are now grown pale and wan

The tears of grief fell from her eyes, each tear as large as hail

None could express the deep distress of my poor old Granuaile

Six hundred years the briny tears have flowed down from my eyes

I curse the day that Henry made of me proud Albion's prize

From that day down with chains I'm bound, no wonder I look pale

The blood they've drained from every vein of poor old Granuaile

On her harp she leaned and thus exclaimed, My royal Brian is gone

Who in his day did drive away the tyrants every one

On Clontarf's plain against the Danes his faction did prepare

Brave Brian Boru cut their lines in two and freed old Granuaile

With blood besmeared and bathed in tears, her harp she sweetly strung

And o'er the air her mournful tune from one last chord she wrung

Her voice so clear fell on my ear, at length my strength did fail

I went away and this did say, God help you, Granuaile