Classic Poem

O! raise the woeful Pillalu ,
And let your tears in streams be shed;
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!
The Master's eldest hope is dead!

Ere broke the morning dim and pale
The owlet flapped his heavy wing:
We heard the winds at evening wail,
And now our dirge of death we sing,
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

Why wouldst thou go? How couldst thou die?
Why hast thou left thy parents dear?
Thy friends, thy kindred far and nigh,
Whose cries, mo vrone! thou dost not hear?
Och; orro, orro, ollalu!

Thy mother, too! — how could she part
From thee, her darling fair and sweet,
The heart that throbbed within her heart,
The pulse, the blood that bade it beat?
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

Oh! lost to her and all thy race,
Thou sleepest in the House of Death;
She sees no more thy cherub face,
She drinks no more thy violet breath;
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

By strand and road, by field and fen,
The sorrowing clans come thronging all;
From camp and dun, from hill and glen,
They crowd around the castle wall.
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

From East and West, from South and North,
To join the funeral train they hie;
And now the mourners issue forth,
And far they spread the keening cry,
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

Then raise the woeful Pillalu ,
And let your tears in streams be shed,
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!
The Chieftain's pride, his heir, is dead.