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