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35Q THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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And the Saxon is baffled. They never discern Where it shelters and saves him, the Irish hill fern.
Oh, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern,
That pours a wild keen o'er the hero's gray cairn,
Go hear it at midnight, when stars are all out,
And the wind o'er the hillside is moaning about,
With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone
That thrills through the heart with its whispering lone ;
And ponder its meaning, when haply you stray
Where the halls of the stranger in ruin decay ;
With night-owls for warders, the goshawk for guest,
And their dais of honor by cattle-hoof pressed,
With its foss choked with rushes, and spider webs
flung Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons
hung, With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour That tarries so long. Look what waves on the tower With an omen and sign, and an augury stern, 'Tis the green flag of Time, 'tis the Irish hill fern. |
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