| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
3oo THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
||
|
|
||
|
Have / no Chief, or you no clan, to give us both defense,
Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold eloquence ?
Thy ghastly head grin's scorn upon old Dublin's Castle Tower;
Thy shaggy hair is wind-tossed and thy brow seems rough with power;
Thy wrathful lips like sentinels, by foulest treachery stung,
Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery tongue. |
||
|
That tongue, whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of
Columbkill; Whose warrior-words fenced round with spears the
oaks of Derry Hill; Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals
and to knaves, And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish graves. The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met
their ears, And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above
his stormy cheers; Ay, Shane, across the thundering sea, out-chanting it,
your tongue Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the Saxon Court
among. Just think, O Shane ! the same moon shines on Liffej1
as on Foyle, And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsmen
to despoil; |
||
|
|
||