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302 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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He was wild, insane for vengeance—ay ! and preached
it till Tyrone Was ruddy, ready, wild, too, with "Red hands" to
clutch their own.
u The Scots are on the border, Shane ! " Ye Saints,
he makes no breath; I remember when that cry would wake him up almost
from death. Art truly dead and cold? O Chief! art thou to
Ulster lost ? "Dost hear—dost hear? By Randolph led, the
troops the Foyle have crossed ! " He's truly dead ! He must be dead ! nor is his ghost
about — And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a
shout: The pale face droopeth northward—ah ! his soul must
loom up there, By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough Foyle, or
Bann the Fair ! I'll speed me Ulster-wards—your ghost must wander
there, proud Shane, In search of some O'Neill, through whom to throb its
hate again. |
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