There is woe, there is clamour, in our desolated land, <br />And wailing lamentation from a famine-stricken band; <br />And weeping are the multitudes in sorrow and despair, <br />For the green fields of Munster lying desolate and bare. <br />Woe for Lorc’s ancient kingdom, sunk in slavery and grief; <br />Plundered, ruined, are our gentry, our people, and their Chief; <br /> <br />For the harvest lieth scattered, more worth to us than gold, <br />All the kindly food that nourished both the young and the old. <br />Well I mind me of the cosherings, where princes might dine, <br />And we drank until nightfall the best seven sorts of wine; <br />Yet was ever the Potato our old, familiar dish, <br />And the best of all sauces with the beeves and the fish. <br />But the harp now is silent, no one careth for the sound; <br />No flowers, no sweet honey, and no beauty can be found; <br />Not a bird its music thrilling through the leaves of the wood, <br />Nought but weeping and hands wringing in despair for our food. <br /> <br />And the Heavens, all in darkness, seem lamenting our doom, <br />No brightness in the sunlight, not a ray to pierce the gloom; <br />The cataract comes rushing with a fearful deepened roar, <br />And ocean bursts its boundaries, dashing wildly on the shore. <br />Yet, in misery and want, we have one protecting man, <br />Kindly Barry, of Fitzstephen’s old hospitable clan; <br />By mount and river working deeds of charity and grace: <br />Blessings ever on our champion, best hero of his race! <br />Save us, God! In Thy mercy bend to hear the people’s cry, <br />From the famine-stricken fields, rising bitterly on high; <br />Let the mourning and the clamour cease in Lorc’s ancient land, <br />And shield us in the death-hour by Thy strong, protecting hand!* <br />Lorc, or Lorcan, an ancient King of Munster, the grandfather of the great King Brian Boru.<br /><br />Lady Jane Wilde<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-lament-for-the-potato/
