Poetry Archives

From the Irish of Thomas Lavelle


On the deck of Patrick Lynch’s boat I sat in woful plight,
Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night;
Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,
By the blessèd sun! ’tis royally I’d sing thy praise, Mayo!

When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound,
In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round—
’Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I’m forced to go
And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.

They are alter’d girls in Irrul now; ’tis proud they’re grown and high,
With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by—
But it ’s little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so,
That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo.

’Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still,
And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill:
And that Colonel Hugh McGrady should be lying dead and low,
And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.