Page:The Spirit of the Nation.djvu/166

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I.

O'er the Rath of Mullaghmast,

On the solemn midnight blast,

What bleeding spectres pass'd,

With their gash'd breasts bare?

Hast thou heard the fitful wail

That o'erloads the sullen gale,

When the waning moon shines pale

O'er the curs'd ground there?

II.

Hark! hollow moans arise

Thro' the black tempestuous skies,

And curses, strife, and cries,

From the lone Rath swell;

For bloody, there,

Nightly fills the lurid air

With th' unholy pomp and glare

Of the foul, deep hell.

III.

He scorches up the gale,

With his knights, in fiery mail;

And the banners of the Pale

O'er the red ranks rest.

But a wan and gory band

All apart and silent stand,

And they point th' accusing hand

At that hell-hound's crest!

IV.

Red streamlets, trickling slow,

O'er their clotted cooluns flow,

And still and awful woe

On their pale brows weeps—