Kathaleen Ni-Houlahan

A Jacobite Relic -- from the Irish

    LONG they pine in weary woe -- the nobles of our land --
    Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned;
    Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exie's brand,
        But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ni-Houlahan.

    Think not her a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen;
    Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen;
    Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a qeeen,
        Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen Ni-Houlahan.

    Sweet and mild would look her face -- Oh! none so sweet and mild --
    Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled;
    Woolen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child,
        If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen Ni-Houlahan.

    Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones
    Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and hapless bones!
    Bitter anguish wrings our souls -- with heavy sighs and groans
        We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ni-Houlahan.

    Let us pray to Him who holds life's issues in His hands,
    Him who formed the mighty globe, with all his thousand lands;
    Girding them with sea and mountains, rivers deep, and strands,
        To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ni-Houlahan.

    He, who over sands and waves led Israel along --
    He who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng;
    He who stood by Moses when his foes were fierce and strong,
        May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen Ni-Houlahan.

        James Clarence Mangan