Thou lov’st to look on myrtles green, And the narcissus bright of hue; I love the blaze of sabres keen, I love the dagger’s flash to view. Thou, thou may’st drink the rosy wine From golden goblets sculptured o’er; From foemen’s skulls the joy be mine To drink my foemen’s reeking gore. * * * * * LONDON Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W. _Edition limited to Thirty Copies_. Footnotes: {10} Here the old ballad—I speak of the original Manx—concludes. The two following stanzas are comparatively modern.