SLIABH NA MBAN

I hear no verses from thrush or blackbird
and grass grows dimly on the forest path,
the gorgeous maiden with grief is laden
with eternal wailing beating hands bereft.
She cries all pining that the young men
in Ireland nightly no rest can plan.
The troop of rangers, all-plundering strangers
on the sunny side slopes of Sliab na mBan.

I grieve my saying that that day's slaying
should have gone on, Gaels in their hundreds dead,
because the stranger is making game of us
saying pikes for them hold fear nor dread.
Our major came not in time of day break
we weren't prepared with our pikes as one,
but as wild sheep nearing a shepherd shearing
on the sunny side slopes of Sliab na mBan.

The Frenchman's rallying with sharp masts steadying
his top sails, bending at sea a while.
His frequent sea cracks mean out isle he's seeking
and for Gaels who see once more in power and style.
Could I believe that he's not deceiving
my heart wouldn't be weaving like the lark at dawn
to down the stranger and hear the hunt's horn blazing
on the sunny side slopes of Sliab na mBan.

New Ross 'tis known wasn't what beat us woefully
and left the horde of us stretched and weak,
we babes unclothed as cinders smouldering
and those who fought (bore at?) lying by ditch and dike.
I have it sworn now that he who lowered us
we'll be before him with pikes each man
and teach the yeoman to fear the foeman
when we pay the score to them at Sliabh na mBan.