Page:Landscape Illustrations - Irish Melodies.pdf/4

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53
THE WICKLOW GOLD MINES.


A lofty moat denotes the place
    Where sleeps in slumber cold
The mighty of a mighty race—
    The giant kings of old.

There Gollah sleeps—the golden band
    About his head is bound;
His javelin in his red right hand,
    His feet upon his hound.
And twice three golden rings are placed
    Upon that hand of fear;
The smallest would go round the waist
    Of any maiden here.

And plates of gold are on his breast,
    And gold doth bind him round;
A king, he taketh kingly rest
    Beneath that royal mound.
But wealth no more the mountain fills,
    As in the days of yore:
Gone are those days; the wave distils
    Its liquid gold no more.

The days of yore—still let my harp
    Their memories repeat—
The days when every sword was sharp,
    And every song was sweet.
The warrior slumbers on the hill,
    The stranger rules the plain:
Glory and gold are gone; but still
    They live in song again.