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.
