Page:The Spirit of the Nation.djvu/167

Rh Rich bowls bestrew the ground,

And broken harps around,

Whose once enchanting sound

In the bard's blood sleeps.

V.

False Sydney! knighthood's stain,

The trusting brave in vain—

Thy guests—ride o'er the plain

To thy dark cow'rd snare.

Flow'r of Offaly and Leix,

They have come thy board to grace—

Fools! to meet a faithless race

Save with true swords bare.

VI.

While cup and song abound,

The triple lines surround

The clos'd and guarded mound,

In the night's dark noon.

Alas! too brave O'More,

Ere the revelry was o'er

They have spill'd thy young heart's gore,

Snatch'd from love too soon!

VII.

At the feast, unarm'd all,

Priest, bard, and chieftain fall

In the treacherous Saxon's hall,

O'er the bright wine bowl;

And now nightly round the board,

With unsheath'd and reeking sword,

Strides the cruel, felon lord

Of the blood-stain'd soul.

VIII.

Since that hour the clouds that pass'd

O'er the Rath of Mullaghmast,

One tear have never cast

On the gore-dyed sod;