To weeds and grass his princely eye
My sire ne’er fondly turned;
But he raised his country’s glory high,
When the strife of warriors burned.
To shine in games of strength and skill,
To breast the torrent from the hill,
To lead the van of the bannered host--
These were his deeds and these his boast.
Where was thy God, when o’er the tide
Two heroes hither bore
Of Lochlin, king of ships, the bride,
And carnage heaped the shore?
When Tailk on Fenians hacked his brand,
’Twas not thy God’s, but Oscar’s hand
That hero prostrate laid;
When rough-voiced Manus swept the coast,
If lived thy God, the Fenian host
Had triumphed by his aid.
When Aluin, Anver’s son of fame,
Round Tara rolled the bickering flame,
Not by thy King’s, but Oscar’s glaive
The warrior sank in a bloody grave.
When haughty Dearg advanced in pride
With his shields of gold o’er Lochlin’s tide,
Why lingered then thy cloud-borne Lord
To save our host from his slaughtering sword?
Oh! glorious deeds arise in crowds,
Of the gallant Fenian band;
But what is achieved by thy King of the clouds--
Where reddened he his hand?[2]