This page has been validated.
189
THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.*[1]
Yes, it is ours!—the field is won,
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield!
Let me not hear your trumpets ring,
Swell not the battle-horn!
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring,
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!
- ↑ *From a publication now out of print.
