“O Con! thy bard will sing no more,
  There is a fearful time at hand;
The Scot is on the northern shore,
  The Saxon in the eastern land;
The hour comes on with quicker flight,
  When all who live on Irish ground
Must render to the stranger’s might
  Both maid and wife, and steed and hound!”

The trembling bard again retires,
But now he lights a thousand fires;
The pent-up flame bursts out at length,
In all its burning, tameless strength. 
You’d think each clansman’s foe was by,
So sternly flashed each angry eye;
You’d think ’twas in the battle’s clang
O’Donnell’s thundering accents rang!

“No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no! 
This foul disgrace must not be so;
No, by the Shrines of Hy, I’ve sworn,
This foulest wrong must not be borne. 
A better steed!—­a fairer wife! 
Was ever truer cause of strife? 
A swifter hound!—­a better steed! 
Columba! these are cause indeed!”

Again, like spray from mountain rill,
Up started Con:  “By Collum Kille,
And by the blessed light of day,
This matter brooketh no delay. 
The moon is down, the morn is up,
Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup,
And swear to hold our next carouse,
With John MacJohn MacDonnell’s spouse!

“We’ve heard the song the bard has sung,
And as a healing herb among
Most poisonous weeds may oft be found,
So of this woman, steed, and hound;
The song has burned into our hearts,
And yet a lesson it imparts,
Had we but sense to read aright
The galling words we heard to-night.

“What lesson does the good hound teach? 
Oh, to be faithful each to each! 
What lesson gives the noble steed? 
Oh! to be swift in thought and deed! 
What lesson gives the peerless wife? 
Oh! there is victory after strife;
Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil,
Pleasant the slumber after toil!”

They drain the cup, they leave the hall,
They seek the armoury and stall,
The shield re-echoing to the spear
Proclaims the foray far and near;
And soon around the castles gate
Full sixty steeds impatient wait,
And every steed a knight upon,
The strong, small-powerful force of Con!

Their lances in the red dawn flash,
As down by Easky’s side they dash;
Their quilted jackets shine the more,
From gilded leather broidered o’er;
With silver spurs, and silken rein,
And costly riding-shoes from Spain;
Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn,
The strong, small-powerful force of Con!

As borne upon autumnal gales,
Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails
Of barks that sweep by Arran’s shore,[90]
Thus swept the train through Barnesmore. 
Through many a varied scene they ran,
By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane,
By many a hill, and many a clan,
Across the Foyle and o’er the Bann:—­

Then stopping in their eagle flight,
They waited for the coming night,
And then, as Antrim’s rivers rush
Straight from their founts with sudden gush,
Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside,
Until the sea receives their tide;
Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn
The swift, small-powerful force of Con.