Push for PORTER

izquierdaThe Convict of Clonmelderecha

Jeremiah Joseph Callanan

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How hard is my fortune,
And vain my repining!
The strong rope of fate
For this young neck is twining!
My strength is departed,
My cheeks sunk and sallow,
While I languish in chains
In the jail of Cluain Meala.

No boy of the village
Was ever yet milder;
I'd play with a child
And my sport would be wilder;
I'd dance without tiring
From morning till even,
And my goal-ball I'd strike
To the lightning of heaven.

At my bed-foot decaying,
My hurley is lying;
Through the boys of the village
My goal-ball is flying;
My horse 'mong the neighbours
Neglected may fallow,
While I pine in my chains
In the jail of Cluain Meala.

Next Sunday the Patron
At home will be keeping,
All the young active hurlers
The field will be sweeping;
And the dance of fair maidens
The evening will hallow,
While this heart once so gay
Will be cold in Cluain Meala.