Bard! to no brave chief belonging, Hath green Eirin no defenders? See her sons to battle thronging, Gael's broad swords and Ir's bow benders! Clan Tir-oen! Clan Tir-conel! Atha's·n royal sept of Conacht! Desmond red and dark O'Donel! Fierce O'More and stout M'Donacht! Hear the sounding spears of Tara, On the blue shields how they rattle, Hear the reckless Lord of Lara Humming his short song of battle! Ullin's chief, the great O'Nial, Sternly with his brown axe playing, Mourns for the far hour of trial And disdains this long delaying! Grey O'Ruark's self doth chide me Through his iron beard and hoary, Murmuring in his breast beside me: On to our old fields of glory! Red-branch crests, like roses flaming, Toss with scorn around Hidallan, Battle, blood and death proclaiming! Fear'st thou still for &Lcirc;nisfallan? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SURFACES AND MASKS; 3 by CLARENCE MAJOR MATER IN EXTREMIS by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 12 by THOMAS CAMPION IF by EDWARD JAMES MORTIMER COLLINS NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY by ROBERT FROST THE CITY CHILD by ALFRED TENNYSON |