The dawn was breaking bright and fair 
The lark sang in the sky 
When the maid she bound her golden hair 
With a blithe glance in her eye 
For who beyond the grey-green wood 
Was awaiting her with joy 
Oh, who but her gallant Renardine 
On the mountains of Pomeroy 

Full often in the dawning hour 
Full oft in the twilight brown 
He met the maid in the woodland bower 
Where the stream comes rushing down 
For they were faithful and in love 
No wars could e'er destroy 
No tyrants laws touched Renardine 
In the Mountains of Pomeroy 

"My love," she said, "I'm sore afraid, 
For the foeman's force and you 
They've tracked you in the lowland plain 
And all the valley through 
My kinsmen frown when you are named 
Your life they would destroy" 
"Beware", they say, "of Renardine 
In the Mountains of Pomeroy" 

An outlawed man in a land forlorn 
He scorned to turn and fly 
But kept the cause of freedom safe 
Upon the mountains high 

"Fear not, fear not, my love," he cried 
"Fear not the foe for me 
No chain shall fall, what e'er betide
On the arm that would be free
Oh, leave your cruel kin and come 
When the lark is in the sky
And it's with my life I will guard you
On the mountains of Pomeroy" 

The morn has come, she rose and fled 
From her cruel kin and home 
And bright the wood and rosy red 
And the tumbling torrent's foam 
But the mist came down and the 
tempest roared 
And all around did destroy 
And she was lost, the brave love of Renardine 
On the mountains of Pomeroy 

An outlawed man in a land forlorn 
He scorned to turn and fly 
And lost his love on that fateful day 
In the mountains of Pomeroy 
An outlawed man in a land forlorn 
He scorned to turn and fly 
But kept the cause of freedom safe 
Upon the mountains high

-George Sigerson

Sléibhte Phomeroy

Unique Word Count: 191

Ba gheal is ba ghlórmhar bhí breacadh an lae 's an fhuiseog ag ceol sa speir, 
Nuair a cheangail an bhé a dlaoithe óir as a súil thug sí spléachadh réidh; 
Nó, cé taobh thall den choill ghlas gheal a d'fhan lena ghrá deas seoigh?
Ó cé bheadh ann ach an Ropaire ar shléibhte Phomeroy?

Curfá:
Bhí ‘n tóir ar fhear idtír faoi léan
Ach dhiúltaigh se teitheadh is rith 
Agus choinnigh se cúis na saoirse slán 
Go hard sna sléibhte is fraoch.

Ba mhinic sin le feascarthráth, ba mhinic le héirí 'n lae
Istigh fan choill casadh do a ghrá 's an sruth ina chúr le sléibh.
Bhí an searc go teann ag an bheirt leannán nach scriosfadh aon chath na slógh 
Char bhain aon dlí leis an Ropaire ar shléibhte Phomeroy.

Curfá

"A stór”, ar sí, “tá mé scanraithe, tá an namhaid lán le fuath.
Chuaigh an toir 'do dhiaidh sa mhachaire thíos agus insna gleannta thuas. 
Bíonn mo mhuintir fraochta gach uile lá, ag iarraidh do mharú ar ndóigh. 
"Fan amach", a deir siad, "on Ropaire sin ar shléibhte Phomeroy".”

Curfá

"Ná buair do cheann, a thaisce", ar sé. "Cha bhainfidh an namhaid dom, 
Ná cha dtéid aon slabhra cibé scéal é ar an lámh bheadh i gconaí saor.
Orú fág do mhuintir chruálach is tar liom 's an fhuiseog sa spéir 'gabhail cheoil. 
Le mo ghunnán, cosnóidh mise thú ar shléibhte Phomeroy.
"

Curfá

Le teacht an lae, d'éirigh sí is theith óna muintir chruálach is a líon. 
Bhí an choill go geal, 's ba rua an chré 's an sruth ina chúr gan síon.
Ach tháinig an ceo is a' doineann sa a ' scrios roimhe is ina dheoidh
'S bhí a bhrídeog báite roimh Sheán Bearnach bocht ar shléibhte Phomeroy.

Curfá

Bhí 'n tóir ar fhear i gCabhán a' Chaorthainn 
Ach dhiúltaigh se teitheadh on tslóigh
 
Agus choinnigh Ó Donnghaile an tsaoirse beo 
Ar shléibhte Phomeroy.