Page:Irish minstrelsy, vol 2 - Hardiman.djvu/63

 Rh

Oh where are the heroes—the lights of our story,
 * Our land from the Dane that defended?

Could death yield them back, with their bright wreath
 * of glory,
 * One more living leaf might be blended;

Could our pray'rs the proud Finians recall from their
 * slumber,
 * Oh the pride of the world we'd again be!

Not a foe to our prince Erin's soil should encumber.
 * And woe to the power of Shane Bui.

The shrines of our faith are destroyed and polluted.
 * By treacherous wolves that assailed us;

The race of our mighty is fall'n and uprooted—
 * Oh weep, for our high hope has failed us.