XII.
Down from the sacred hills whereon a Saint[1] communed with God,
Up from the vale where Bagnall's blood manured the reeking sod,
Out from the stately wood of Truigh, M'Kenna's plundered home,
Like Larne's waves, as fierce and fast, our brother clansmen come.
XIII.
Then, let them stay to bow and fawn, or fight with cunning words;
I fear me more their courtly arts than England's hireling swords,
Nathless their creed they hate us still, as the despoiler hates,
Would God they loved their prey no more, our kinsman's lost estates!
XIV.
Our rude array's a jagged rock to smash the spoiler's power,
Or need we aid. His aid we have who doomed this gracious hour.
Of yore He led our Hebrew sires to peace through strife and pain,
And us he leads the self-same path, the self-same goal to gain.
XV.
Then, brethren, on!—O'Nial's shade would frown to see you pause—
Our banished Hugh, our martyred Hugh, is watching o'er your cause—
His generous error lost the land—he deem'd the Norman true,
Oh forward! friends, it must not lose the land again in you!
- ↑ St. Patrick, whose favourite retreat was Lecale, in the County Down.
