And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes, Or their limbs from the cold ground raise, Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below; When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, The maidens' trance dissolveth so. Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain-- They pined away and died within the year and day, And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again. ---Sir S. Ferguson. THE BATTLE OF ARDNOCHER [Illustration: 9231] |On the eve of St Laurence, at the cross of Glenfad, Both of chieftains and bonaghts what a muster we had, Thick as bees, round the heather, on the side of Slieve Bloom, To the try sting they gather by the light of the moon. For the Butler from Ormond with a hosting he came, And harried Moycashel with havoc and flame, Not a hoof or a hayrick, nor corn blade to feed on, Had he left in the wide land, right up to Dunbreedon. Then gathered MacGeoghegan, the high prince of Donore, With O'Connor from Croghan, and O'Dempsys _galore_; And, my soul, how we shouted, as dash'd in with their men, Bold MacCoghlan from Clara, O'Mulloy from the glen. And not long did we loiter where the four _toghers_ * met, But his saddle each tightened, and his spurs closer set, By the skylight that flashes all their red burn- ings back, And by black gore and ashes fast the rievers we track. 'Till we came to Ardnocher, and its steep slope we gain, And stretch'd there, beneath us, saw their host in the plain; And high shouted our leader ('twas the brave William Roe)-- "By the red hand of Nial,'tis the Sassenach foe! "Now, low level your spears, grasp each battle- axe firm, And for God and our Ladye strike ye downright and stern; * Roads. For our homes and our altars charge ye stead- fast and true, And our watchword be vengeance, and Lamb _Dearg Aboo!_" * Oh, then down like a torrent with a _farrah_ we swept, And full stout was the Saxon who his saddle- tree kept; For we dash'd thro' their horsemen till they reel'd from the stroke, And their spears, like dry twigs, with our axes we broke. With our plunder we found them, our fleet garrons and kine, And each chalice and cruet they had snatch'd from God's shrine. But a red debt we paid them, the Sassenach raiders, As we scatter'd their spearmen, slew chieftains and leaders. In the Pale there is weeping and watchings in vain.