Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79.



By James Clarence Mangan (1803–1849)

  • This poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet Mac Liag, the secretary of the renowned monarch Brian Borù, who, as is well known, fell at the battle of Clontarf, in 1014, and the subject of it is a lamentation for the fallen condition of Kinkora, the palace of that monarch, consequent on his death. The palace, which was situated on the banks of the Shannon, near Killaloe, is now a heap of ruins.

  • O, WHERE, Kinkora! is Brian the Great?

    And where is the beauty that once was thine?

    O, where are the princes and nobles that sate

    At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine!

    Where, O Kinkora?

    O, where, Kinkora! are thy valorous lords?

    O, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone?

    O, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords?

    And where are the warriors Brian led on?

    Where, O Kinkora?

    And where is Morrogh, the descendant of kings;

    The defeater of a hundred, the daringly brave,—

    Who set but slight store by jewels and rings,

    Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave?

    Where, O Kinkora?

    And where is Donogh, King Brian’s worthy son?

    And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief?

    And Kian and Core? Alas! they are gone,—

    They have left me this night alone with my grief!

    Left me, Kinkora!

    And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth,

    The never-vanquished sons of Erin the brave,

    The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth,

    And the hosts of Baskinn from the western wave?

    Where, O Kinkora?

    O, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds?

    And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy?

    And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds

    In the red battle-field no time can destroy?

    Where, O Kinkora?

    And where is that youth of majestic height,

    The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots? Even he,

    As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might,

    Was tributary, O Kinkora, to thee!

    Thee, O Kinkora!

    They are gone, those heroes of royal birth,

    Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust;

    ’T is weary for me to be living on earth

    When they, O Kinkora, lie low in the dust!

    Low, O Kinkora!

    O, never again will Princes appear,

    To rival the Dalcassians of the Cleaving Swords;

    I can never dream of meeting afar or anear,

    In the east or the west, such heroes and lords!

    Never, Kinkora!

    O, dear are the images my memory calls up

    Of Brian Borù!—how he never would miss

    To give me at the banquet the first bright cup!

    Ah! why did he heap on me honor like this?

    Why, O Kinkora?

    I am Mac Liag, and my home is on the Lake:

    Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled,

    Came Brian, to ask me, and I went for his sake.

    O, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead!

    Dead, O Kinkora!