Classic Poem

XXI.

" Thy horses bound o'er Eargals' plains,
Like meteor stars their red eyes gleam;
With silver hoofs and broidered reins,
They mount the hill and swim the stream;
But like the wind through Barnesmore,
Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,
Or like a sea-bird to the shore, —
Thus swiftly sweeps Mac Donnell's steed!

XXII.

" A thousand graceful steeds had Fin,
Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall,
A thousand steeds as sleek of skin
As ever graced a chieftain's stall.
With gilded bridles oft they flew,
Young eagles in their lightning speed,
Strong as the cataract of Hugh, —
So swift and strong Mac Donnell's steed! "

XXIII.

Without the hearty word of praise,
Without the kindly smiling gaze,
Without the friendly hand to greet,
The daring Bard resumes his seat.
Even in the hospitable face
Of Con, the anger you could trace.
But generous Con his wrath suppressed,
For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest.

XXIV.

" Now, by Columba! " Con exclaimed,
" Methinks this Scot should be ashamed
To snatch at once, in sateless greed,
The fairest maid and finest steed;
My realm is dwindled in mine eyes,
I know not what to praise or prize,
And even my noble dog, O Bard,
Now seems unworthy my regard! "

XXV.

" When comes the raven of the sea
To nestle on an alien strand,
Oh! ever, ever will he be
The master of the subject land.
The fairest dame, he holdeth her —
For him the noblest steed doth bound; —
Your dog is but a household cur,
Compared to John Mac Donnell's hound!

XXVI.

" As fly the shadows o'er the grass,
He flies with step as light and sure,
He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass,
And starts the deer by Lisanoure!
The music of the sabbath bells,
Oh, Con! has not a sweeter sound,
Than when along the valley swells
The cry of John Mac Donnell's hound.

XXVII.

" His stature tall, his body long,
His back like night, his breast like snow,
His fore-leg pillar-like and strong,
His hind-leg like a bended bow;
Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,
His ear a leaf so small and round:
Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin,
Could rival John Mac Donnell's hound.

XXVIII.

" O Con! thy bard will sing no more,
There is a fearful time at hand;
The Scot is on the northern shore,
The Saxon in the eastern land,
The hour comes on with quicker flight,
When all who live on Irish ground
Must render to the stranger's might
Both maid and wife, and steed and hound! "

XXIX.

The trembling bard again retires,
But now he lights a thousand fires;
The pent-up flame bursts out at length,
In all its burning, tameless strength.
You'd think each clansman's foe was by,
So sternly flashed each angry eye;
You'd think 'twas in the battle's clang,
O'Donnell's thundering accents rang!

XXX.

" No! by my sainted kinsman, no!
This foul disgrace must not be so;
No! by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn,
This foulest wrong must not be borne.
A better steed! — a fairer wife! —
Was ever truer cause of strife?
A swifter hound! — a better steed! —
Columba! these are cause indeed! "