Sydney Chronicle 16th October, 1847
Hear you not that wild wind moaning,
Shrieking o’er our withered land?
Hear you not our mountains groaning
To tell us sorrow is at hand?
See you not our people dying.
Young and old are swept away ;
The proud and strong around are lying,
Ere life ebbs out they turn to clay!
Hear you not that Ocean storm?
Convulsed Atlantic shows her sorrow:
See you not that shipwreck’d form?
All, all portends of grief to-morrow.
List, oh list, the Banshee crying
Around the walls of Derrynane;
Away from us our Chieftain’s dying,
The Mileslan dirge her midnight wail.
Alas! alas! the morn looks sad,
The sun lies hid behind yon cloud,
In deepest dye of mourning clad,
Close wrapped as in a grave-like shroud.
Hush, oh hush, all hearts are breakiig
Weep, oh weep, his spirit’s fled.
Hark! a mighty voice is speaking
“Slaves, your friend O’Connell’s dead.”
Poland grieved o’er Kosciusko’s pall;
Columbia wept her Washington;
Each nation’s mourned her hero’s fall,
Proud England still has Wellington;
But ours – oh ours – the wide worlds’ friend,
In every clime the tyrants’ dread;
What slaves shall now know sorrow’s end,
Their champion all, O’Connell’s dead.
Yes; his fall through every clime will ring,
The myriads shout his hallowed praise;
And those will weep his funeral song,
Who heeded not his glorious rays;
Aye, they will seek a borrowed fame,
As earth is brightened by the sun;
And those will claim O’Connell’s name!
Whose every deed his bosom wrung.
J. N. F, Bungendore, October 5, 1847.