Padraic Colum (1881–1972). Anthology of Irish Verse. 1922.
By James Clarence Mangan60. Kincora
A
And where is the beauty that once was thine?
Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate
At the feasts in thy halls, and drank the red wine,
Where, O Kincora?
Oh, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone?
Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the Golden Swords?
And where are the warriors Brian led on?
Where, O Kincora?
The defeater of a hundred—the daringly brave—
Who set but slight store by jewels and rings—
Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave?
Where, O Kincora?
And where is Conaing, the Beautiful Chief?
And Kian, and Core? Alas! they are gone—
They have left me this night alone with my grief!
Left me, Kincora!
The ne’er-vanquished son of Evin the Brave,
The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth,
And the hosts of Baskinn, from the western wave?
Where, O Kincora?
And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy?
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds
In the red battlefield no time can destroy?
Where, O Kincora?
The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots?—Even he,
As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might,
Was tributary, O Kincora, to thee!
Thee, O Kincora!
Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust,
’Tis weary for me to be living on earth
When they, O Kincora, lie low in the dust!
Low, O Kincora!
To rival the Dalcassians of the Cleaving Swords!
I can never dream of meeting afar or anear,
In the east or the west, such heroes and lords!
Never, O Kincora!
Of Brian Boru!—how he never would miss
To give me at the banquet the first bright cup!
Ah! why did he heap on me honor like this?
Why, O Kincora?
Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled,
Came Brian to ask me, and I went for his sake.
Oh, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead
Dead, O Kincora!