I sang his dirge, I could sing that time Four thousand staves of ancestral rhyme: To-day I can scarcely sing the half: Of old I was corn, and I now am chaff! My song to-day is a breeze that shakes Feebly the down on the cygnet's breast; 'Twas then a billow the beach that rakes, Or a storm that buffets the mountain's crest. Whatever I bit with a venomed song, Grew sick, were it beast, or tree, or man: The wronged one sued me to right his wrong With the flail of the Satire and fierce Ode's fan. I sang to the chieftains: each stock I traced, Lest lines should grow tangled through fraud or haste. To princes I sang in a loftier tone Of Moran the just who refused a throne; Of Moran, whose torque would close, and choke The wry-necked witness that falsely spoke. I taught them how to win love and hate, Not love from all; and to shun debate. To maids in the bower I sang of love: And of war at the feastings in bawn or grove. Great is our Order: but greater far Were its pomp and power in the days of old, When the five Chief Bards in peace or war Had thirty bards each in his train enrolled: When Ollave Fodla in Tara's hall Fed bards and kings; when the boy King Nial Was trained by Torna; when Britain and Gaul Sent crowns of laurel to Dallan Forgial. To-day we can launch the clans into fight; That day we could freeze them in mid career! Whatever man knows was our realm by right: The lore without music no Gael would hear. Old Cormac the brave blind king was bard Ere fame rose yet of O'Daly and Ward. The son of Milesius was bard--'Go back My People,' he sang, 'ye have done a wrong! Nine waves go back o'er the green sea track, Let your foes their castles and coasts make strong. To the island you came by stealth and at night: She is ours if we win her, in all men's sight;' For that first song's sake let our bards hold fast To Truth and Justice from first to last! 'Tis over! some think we erred through pride, Though Columba the vengeance turned aside. Too strong we were not: too rich we were: Give wealth to knaves: 'tis the true man's snare. But now men lie: they are just no more; They forsake the old ways; they quest for new; They pry and they snuff after strange false lore, As dogs hunt vermin: it never was true:-- I have scorned it for twenty years--this babble, That eastward and southward, a Saxon rabble Have won great battles and rule large lands, And plight with daughters of ours their hands. We know the bold Norman o'erset their throne Long since. Our lands! let them guard their own.