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5po THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Let the trumpets ring triumph ! The tyrant is slain ! He reels o'er his charger deep-pierced through the
brain; And his myriads are flying, like leaves on the gale — But who shall escape from our hills with the tale?
For the arrows of vengeance are showering like rain, And choke the strong rivers with islands of slain, Till thy waves, lordly Shannon, all crimsonly flow, Like the billows of hell, with the blood of the foe.
Ay ! the foemen are flying, but vainly they fly — Revenge with the fleetness of lightning can vie; And the septs of the mountains spring up from each
rock And rush down the ravines like wolves on the flock.
And who shall pass over the stormy Slieve Bloom, To tell the pale Saxon of tyranny's doom, When, like tigers from ambush, our fierce mountaineers Leap along from the crags with their death-dealing spears ?
They came with high boasting to bind us as slaves, But the glen and the torrent have yawned on their
graves. From the gloomy Ardfinnan to wild Temple Mor — From the Suir to the Shannon—is red with their gore.
By the soul of Heremon ! our warriors may smile, To remember the march of the foe through our isle; Their banners and harness were costly and gay, And proudly they flashed in the summer sun's ray; |
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