“Oh! had we iron hands to dare,
As we have waxen hearts to bear,
Oh! had we manly blood to shed,
Or even to tinge our cheeks with red,
No bard could say as you have said,
One of the race of Somerled—­
A base intruder from the Isles—­
Basks in our island’s sunniest smiles!

“But, not to mar our feast to-night
With what to-morrow’s sword may right,
O Bard of many songs! again
Awake thy sweet harp’s silvery strain. 
If beauty decks with peerless charm
MacDonnell’s wife in fair Glenarm,
Say does there bound in Antrim’s meads
A steed to match O’Donnell’s steeds?”

Submissive doth the bard incline
  His reverend head, and cries, “O Con,
Thou heir of Conal Golban’s line,
  I’ve sang the fair wife of MacJohn;
You’ll frown again as late you frowned,
  But truth will out when lips are freed;
There’s not a steed on Irish ground
  To stand beside MacDonnell’s steed!

“Thy horses o’er Eargals’ plains,
  Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam;
With silver hoofs and broidered reins,
  They mount the hill and swim the stream;
But like the wind through Barnesmore,
  Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87]
Or like a sea-bird to the shore,
  Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell’s steed!

“A thousand graceful steeds had Fin,
  Within lost Almhaim’s fairy hall,
A thousand steeds as sleek of skin
  As ever graced a chieftain’s stall. 
With gilded bridles oft they flew,
  Young eagles in their lightning speed,
Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88]
  So swift and strong MacDonnell’s steed!”

Without the hearty word of praise,
Without the kindly smiling gaze,
Without the friendly hand to greet,
The daring bard resumes his seat. 
Even in the hospitable face
Of Con, the anger you could trace. 
But generous Con his wrath suppressed,
For Owen was Clan Dalaigh’s guest.

“Now, by Columba!” Con exclaimed,
“Methinks this Scot should be ashamed
To snatch at once, in sateless greed,
The fairest maid and finest steed;
My realm is dwindled in mine eyes,
I know not what to praise or prize,
And even my noble dog, O Bard,
Now seems unworthy my regard!”

“When comes the raven of the sea
  To nestle on an alien strand,
Oh! ever, ever will he be
  The master of the subject land. 
The fairest dame, he holdeth her—­
  For him the noblest steed doth bound—­;
Your dog is but a household cur,
  Compared to John MacDonnell’s hound!

“As fly the shadows o’er the grass,
  He flies with step as light and sure,
He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass,
  And starts the deer by Lisanoure! 
The music of the Sabbath bells,
  O Con, has not a sweeter sound
Than when along the valley swells
  The cry of John MacDonnell’s hound.

“His stature tall, his body long,
  His back like night, his breast like snow,
His fore-leg pillar-like and strong,
  His hind-leg like a bended bow;
Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,
  His ear a leaf so small and round: 
Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin,
  Could rival John MacDonnell’s hound.