William O'Kelly

The Protecting Tree             Of the men of the land of Fl!         What aileth thee,             And why is it that all         About thee grieves?         Alas, O Tree of the Leaves!             Here is thy rhyme:         Thy bloom is lightened;         And if thy fruit be withered         Thy root hath not tightened             At the same time.         Not since the Gael was sold         At Aughrim.    Not since to cold,         Dull death went Owen Roe;         Not since the drowning of Clann Adam in the days of Noe             Brought men to hush,         Has such a tale of woe come to us             In such a rush.         The true flower of the blood of the place is fallen:         The true clean-wheat of the Gael is reaped.         Destruction be upon Death,             For he has come and taken from our tree                 The topmost blackberry!