The dance wound through the windless woods; The ever-summered solitudes; Until the tossing arms grew still Upon the woody central hill; And, gathered in a panting band, We flung on high each waving hand, And sang unto the starry broods: In our raised eyes there flashed a glow Of milky brightness to and fro As thus our song arose: ‘You stars, Across your wandering ruby cars Shake the loose reins: you slaves of God, He rules you with an iron rod, He holds you with an iron bond, Each one woven to the other, Each one woven to his brother Like bubbles in a frozen pond; But we in a lonely land abide Unchainable as the dim tide, With hearts that know nor law nor rule, And hands that hold no wearisome tool; Folded in love that fears no morrow, Nor the gray wandering osprey Sorrow.’ O Patric! for a hundred years I chased upon that woody shore The deer, the badger, and the boar. O Patric! for a hundred years At evening on the glimmering sands, Beside the piled-up hunting spears, These now outworn and withered hands Wrestled among the island bands. O Patric! for a hundred years We went a-fishing in long boats With bending sterns and bending bows, And carven figures on their prows Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats. O Patric! for a hundred years The gentle Niamh was my wife; But now two things devour my life; The things that most of all I hate: Fasting and prayers. S. PATRIC. Tell on. OISIN. Yes, yes, For these were ancient Oisin’s fate Loosed long ago from heaven’s gate, For his last days to lie in wait.