O'CONNOR'S CHILD,

OR THE

FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

O'CONNOR'S CHILD,

OR THE

FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

Oh once the harp of Innisfail
Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
But yet it often told a tale
Of more prevailing sadness.

Sad was the note, and wild its fall, As winds that moan at night forlorn Along the isles of Fion-Gall, When, for O'Connor's child to mourn, The harper told, how lone, how far From any mansion's twinkling star, From any path of social men, Or voice, but from the fox's den, The Lady in the desert dwelt; And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt: Say, why should dwell in place so wild, The lovely pale O'Connor's child?

Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's pow'r,

As in the palace of her sires She bloom'd a peerless flow'r. Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, The royal broche, the jewell'd ring, . That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone Like dews on lilies of the spring. Yet why, though fall’n her brother's kerne,? Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,' While yet in Leinster unexplor'd, Her friends survive the English sword; Why lingers she from Erin's host, So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast; Why wanders she a huntress wildThe lovely pale O'Connor's child?,