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 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.