The Jail of Clonmel

O, it's one year tomorrow
my home I deserted
and went to Ard Pádraig
my hat done in laces.
The Whiteboys were there
tormenting the cattle
—now I'm grieving and lonely
in the jail of Clonmel.

My bridle and saddle
are loaned out a long time,
my hurley is slanted
in under my bed,
my ball hit about
by the boys of the valley
—I who'd hit a goal-puck
as high as the next!

Kerrymen, pray for me.
I love your soft voices,
nor thought I would never
return to you living.
But our three heads will soon
be on spikes for a show
in the snows of the night
and all weathers that come.

If you go to Uibh ráthach
take the news to my people
I'm condemned on this sod
and won't live beyond Friday.
Get the things for my wake
and a fine coffin round me
—here's an end of Ó Dónaill
and pray for him always.