The Dark Palace

There beams no light from thy hall to-night,
Oh, House of Fame;
No mead-vat seethes and no smoke upwreathes
O'er the hearth's red flame;
No high bard sings for the joy of thy kings,
And no harpers play;
No hostage moans as thy dungeon rings
As in Muircherteach's day.

Fallen! fallen! to ruin all in
The covering mould;
The painted yew, and the curtains blue,
And the cups of gold;
The linen, yellow as the corn when mellow,
That the princes wore;
And the mirrors brazen for your queens to gaze in,
They are here no more.

The sea-bird's pinion thatched Gormlai's grinnan;
And through windows clear,
Without crystal pane, in her Ard-righ's reign
She looked from here
There were quilts of eider on her couch of cedar;
And her silken shoon
Were as green and soft as the leaves aloft
On a bough in June.

Ah, woe unbounded where the harp once sounded
The wind now sings;
The grey grass shivers where the mead in rivers
Was outpoured for kings;
The min and the mether are lost together
With the spoil of the spears;
The strong dun only has stood dark and lonely
Through a thousand years.

But I'm not in woe for the wine-cup's flow,
For the banquet's cheer,
For tall princesses with their trailing tresses
And their broidered gear;
My grief and my trouble for this palace noble
With no chief to lead
'Gainst the Saxon stranger on the day of danger
Out of Aileach Neid.