THE Danes rush around, around; To the edge of the fosse they bound; Hark! hark, to their trumpets' sound, Bidding them to the war! Hark! hark, to their cruel cry, As they swear our hearts' cores to dry, And their raven red to dye; Glutting their demon, Thor. Leaping the rath upon, Here's the fiery Ceallachan, -- He makes the Lochlonnach wan, Lifting his brazen spear! Ivor, the Dane, is struck down, For the spear broke right through his crown. Yet worse did the battle frown, -- Anlaf is on our rear! See! see! the Rath's gates are broke And in -- in, like a cloud of smoke, Burst on the dark Danish folk, Charging us everywhere, -- O, never was closer fight Than in Argan Mor that night, -- How little do men want light, Fighting within their lair. Then girding about our king, On the thick of the foes we spring, -- Down -- down we trample and fling, Gallantly though they strive; And never our falchions stood, Till we were all wet with their blood, And none of the pirate brood Went from the Rath alive! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BURIED LADY by PAUL VALERY A BARD'S EPITAPH by ROBERT BURNS THE LISBON PACKET by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A BALLADE OF SUICIDE by GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON THE BIRD WITH THE COPPERY, KEEN CLAWS by WALLACE STEVENS TO THE LADY IN THE CHIMSETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS |