“O Con, thou hospitable Prince! 
  Thou, of the open heart and hand,
Full oft I’ve seen the crimson tints
  Of evening on the western land. 
I’ve wandered north, I’ve wandered south,
  Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall,
But never saw so sweet a mouth
  As whispered love by Cushendall.

“O Con, munificent gifts! 
  I’ve seen the full round harvest moon
Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts
  Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85]
I’ve seen the stars that glittering lie
  O’er all the night’s dark mourning pall,
But never saw so bright an eye
  As lit the glens of Cushendall.

“I’ve wandered with a pleasant toil,
  And still I wander in my dreams;
Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle,
  To Desmond of the flowing streams. 
I’ve crossed the fair green plains of Meath,
  To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall;
But never saw such pearly teeth,
  As her’s that smiled by Cushendall.

“O Con! thou’rt rich in yellow gold,
  Thy fields are filled with lowing kine,
Within they castles wealth untold,
  Within thy harbours fleets of wine;
But yield not, Con, to worldly pride
  Thou may’st be rich, but hast not all;
Far richer he who for his bride
  Has won fair Anne of Cushendall.

“She leans upon a husband’s arm,
  Surrounded by a valiant clan,
In Antrim’s Glynnes, by fair Glenarm,
  Beyond the pearly-paven Bann;
’Mid hazel woods no stately tree
  Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall,
When summer clothes its boughs, than she,
  MacDonnell’s wife of Cushendall!”

The bard retires amid the throng,
No sweet applause rewards his song,
No friendly lip that guerdon breathes,
To bard more sweet than golden wreaths. 
It might have been the minstrel’s art
Had lost the power to move the heart,
It might have been his harp had grown
Too old to yield its wonted tone.

But no, if hearts were cold and hard,
’Twas not the fault of harp or bard;
It was no false or broken sound
That failed to move the clansmen round. 
Not these the men, nor these the times,
To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes;
’Twas what he said that made them chill,
And not his singing well or ill.

Already had the stranger band
Of Saxons swept the weakened land,
Already on the neighbouring hills
They named anew a thousand rills,
“Our fairest castles,” pondered Con,
“Already to the foe are gone,
Our noblest forests feed the flame,
And now we lose our fairest dame.”

But though his cheek was white with rage,
He seemed to smile, and cried—­“O Sage! 
O honey-spoken bard of truth! 
MacDonnell is a valiant youth. 
We long have been the Saxon’s prey—­
Why not the Scot as well as they? 
He’s of as good a robber line
As any a Burke or Geraldine.

“From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame,
From Insi Gall his people came;
From Insi Gall, where storm winds roar
Beyond the gray Albin’s icy shore. 
His grandsire and his grandsire’s son,
Full soon fat herds and pastures won;
But, by Columba! were we men,
We’d send the whole brood back again!