24
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear;
While I, his evening foot to dress,
Would sing to him in happiness!
But oh! that midnight of dispair,
When I was doomed to rend my hair
The night to me of shrieking sorrow!
The night to him—that had no morrow!
When all was hushed at even tide,
I heard the baying of their beagle;
Be hushed, my Connocht, Moran cried,
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle—
Alas; 'twas not eyrie's sound
Their bloody hands had traced us out:
Up-listering starts our couchant hound—
And, hark; the nearer shout
Brings faster on the murderers.
Spare—spare him—Brazil—Desmond fierce:
In vain—no voice the adder charms:
Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms;
Another's sword has laid him low—
Another's and another's;
And every hand that dealt a blow—
Ah me, it was a brother's:
Yes, when his meanings died away.
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o'er his burial turf they trod,
And I beheld—-O God; O God;
His life-blood oozing from the sod.
FINIS
