Grand chorus.

  His shall he a noble pyre! 
  Robes of gold shall feed the fire;
  Amber, gums, and richest pearl
  On his bed of glory hurl: 
  Trophies of his conquering might,
  Skulls of foes, and banners bright,
  Shields, and splendid armour, won
  When the combat-day was done,
  On his blazing death-pile heap,
  Where the brave in glory sleep! 
  And the Romans’ vaunted pride,
  Their eagle-god, in blood streams dyed,
  Which, amid the battle’s roar,
  From their king of ships he tore;
  Hurl it, hurl it in the flame,
  And o’er it raise the loud acclaim! 
  Let the captive and the steed
  On his death-pile nobly bleed;
  Let his hawks and war-dogs share
  His glory, as they claimed his care.

  Semi-chorus.

  Silent is his hall of shields
  In Rath-col’s dim and woody fields,
  Night-winds round his lone hearth sing
  The fall of Prythian’s warlike king!—­
  Now his home of happy rest
  Is in the bright isles of the west;
  There, in stately halls of gold,
  He with the mighty chiefs of old,
  Quaffs the horn of hydromel
  To the harp’s melodious swell;
  And on hills of living green,
  With airy bow of lightning sheen,
  Hunts the shadowy deer-herd fleet
  In their dim-embowered retreat. 
  He is free to roam at will
  O’er sea and sky, o’er heath and hill,
  When our fathers’ spirits rush
  On the blast and crimson gush
  Of the cloud-fire, through the storms,
  Like the meteor’s brilliant forms,
  He shall come to the heroes’ shout
  In the battle’s gory rout;
  He shall stand by the stone of death,
  When the captive yields his breath;
  And in halls of revelry
  His dim spirit oft shall be.

  Grand chorus.

  Shout, and fill the hirlass horn,
  Round the dirge-feast quaff till morn;
  Songs and joy sound o’er the heath,
  For he died the warrior’s death! 
  Garlands fling upon the fire,
  His shall be a noble pyre! 
  And his tomb befit a king,
  Encircled with a regal ring
  Which shall to latest time declare,
  That a princely chief lies there,
  Who died to set his country free,
  Who fell for British liberty;
  His renown the harp shall sing
  To mail clad chief and battle-king,
  And fire the mighty warrior’s soul
  Long as eternal ages roll!

The Notes to each Tragedy are very abundant.  Indeed, they are of the most laborious research.  We quote an extract relative to “grinning skulls” as terrifically interesting: