Horns ring in that gay time With birds' mellow call; The fox run high and higher, Now they fell the wildwood, Ah! Shane O'Dwyer a Gleanna, Joy is not for thee. He mourns his dogs tied up, unable to chase the stag from the hills. If peace came but a small way, I'd journey down to Galway, And leave, though not for alway, 'Alas! no warrior column fights for Ireland on the wasted plains. The name of Erin is toasted no more in city, camp or palace. Shane exclaims: Oh! When shall come the shouting, The English flight and routing? We hear no joyous shouting From the blackbird yet; But more warlike glooms the omen, Justice comes to no men, Priests must flee the foemen, To hilly caves and wet. He regrets that sinless death was not his before the undoing of his bright hope. The rest is pure rebel autobiography: Now my lands are plunder, Far my friends asunder, I must hide me under Heath and bramble screen, If soon I cannot save me By flight from foes that crave me, Ex. 40. Shane O'Dwyer of the Glen. We are probably justified in referring to this period that popular song, "The County of Mayo." The Cromwellians gave the Irish permission to take service in the army of any nation at amity with the Commonwealth. Some 7000 went to Spain; others went to fight under the Prince of Conde; 5000 followed Lord Muskerry to join the forces of the king of Poland. "The County of Mayo" seems to be the leave-taking of an Irishman going to seek fortune in Spain: On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight, Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night; Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, When I dwelt at home in plenty and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round. 'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go, And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo. They're altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and high, With their hair bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo. 'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not earl in Irrul still, And that Brian Duff no longer rules as lord upon the hill, And that Colonel Hugh Mac Grady should be lying dead and low, And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo. The Cromwellian proscription also included Sir Patrick Bellew, captain of the force raised by the Confederacy in Louth. His name is preserved in Sir Patrick Bellew's March. The "Sir," however, is a courtesy conferred by the people out of admiration, but probably for as good reason as has earned many a man the royal accolade. Bellew was possessor of an estate of between five and six thousand acres: hence, possibly the unwillingness to pardon the owner. The division of all this land taken from the Irish gentry led to trouble. It was hotly disputed whether the division should be judicial or left to chance. The soldiers-was it religion or the gambling instinct?-said that they "Would rather take a lot upon a barren mountain from the Lord than a portion of the most fruitful valley from their own choice." So the allotment was left to chance. Those who got the barren mountain, however, were little satisfied and much bad blood resulted. The authorities had good reason to hope that now, at least, Ireland was in a fair way to become English. Yet, within a hundred years, the descend |