And there is trophy, banner, and plume,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom,
O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The month is closed, and Green Truagha's pride, Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Is married to death--and, side by side,

He slumbers now with his churchyard bride,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

William Carleton.

Killenarden.

THE HILL OF KILLENARDEN.

THOUGH time effaces memory,

THOUG

And griefs the bosom harden,
I'll ne'er forget, where'er I be,
That day at Killenarden;

For there, while fancy revelled wide,
The summer's day flew o'er me;
The friends I loved were at my side,
And Irish fields before me.

The road was steep; the pelting showers
Had cooled the sod beneath us;

And there were lots of mountain flowers,
A garland to enwreathe us.

Far, far below the landscape shone
With wheat and new-mown meadows,
And as o'erhead the clouds flew on,
Beneath swept on their shadows.
O friends, beyond the Atlantic's foam
There may be nobler mountains,
And in our new far Western home
Green fields and brighter fountains;
But as for me, let time destroy
All dreams, but this one pardon,
And barren memory long enjoy
That day on Killenarden.

Charles Graham Halpine.

K

Killynoogan.

KILLYNOOGAN.

ILLYNOOGAN, hallowed name,

Though thou 'rt little known to fame,

My heart's homage thou dost claim.

Though to stranger ears thou be
But a word of mystery,
Meaning deep thou hast for me.

All thy quaint old masonry
Now before my eyes I see,
As of old it used to be.

Ah! too well I can recall
Every stone in every wall,
In my heart I count them all.

And the garden full of flowers,
Where I've past romantic hours,
Dreaming of fair ladies' bowers.

In the orchard, stretched at ease
On the grass, I hear the breeze
Piping 'mong the apple-trees.

While from many a leafy nook,
Grave as parson at his book,
Rook replieth unto rook.

I can hear the river's flow
As it murmurs, soft and low,
Bringing news from Pettigo.

I can watch it to the mill,
Where the never-tiring wheel
Dances round and drinks its fill.

Past the castle of Magra,
Razed by Cromwell's cruel law,

On it goes with many a turn,
Playing with its fringe of fern,
Till it touches broad Lough Erne.

*

John Reade.

Kinkora.

KINKORA.

THIS poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet Mac Liag, the secretary of the renowned monarch Brian Borù, who, as is well known, fell at the battle of Clontarf, in 1014, and the subject of it is a lamentation for the fallen condition of Kinkora, the palace of that monarch, consequent on his death. The palace, which was situated on the banks of the Shannon, near Killaloe, is now a heap of ruins.

0,

WHERE, Kinkora! is Brian the Great?

And where is the beauty that once was thine? O, where are the princes and nobles that sate

At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine! Where, O Kinkora ?

O, where, Kinkora! are thy valorous lords?
O, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone?
O, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords?
And where are the warriors Brian led on?

Where, O Kinkora ?

And where is Morrogh, the descendant of kings;
The defeater of a hundred, the daringly brave,
Who set but slight store by jewels and rings,

Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave?
Where, O Kinkora?

And where is Donogh, King Brian's worthy son?
And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief?

And Kian and Corc? Alas! they are gone,

They have left me this night alone with my grief!
Left me, Kinkora!

And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth,
The never-vanquished sons of Erin the brave,
The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth,
And the hosts of Baskinn from the western wave?
Where, O Kinkora ?

O, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds?
And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy?
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds
In the red battle-field no time can destroy?

Where, O Kinkora?

And where is that youth of majestic height,

The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots? Even he, As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might, Was tributary, O Kinkora, to thee!

Thee, O Kinkora!

They are gone, those heroes of royal birth,

Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust;

'Tis weary for me to be living on earth

When they, O Kinkora, lie low in the dust!

Low, O Kinkora!

O, never again will Princes appear,

To rival the Dalcassians of the Cleaving Swords;

I can never dream of meeting afar or anear,

In the east or the west, such heroes and lords!

Never, Kinkora!