He turned and loosed MacDonnell’s hand,
And led him where his steed doth stand;
He placed the bride of peerless charms
Within his longing, outstretched arms;
He freed the hound from chain and band,
Which, leaping, licked his master’s hand;
And thus, while wonder held the crowd,
The generous chieftain spoke aloud:—­

“MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour
  That thou in Antrim’s glynnes possessed
The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower
  That ever bloomed on Erin’s breast. 
I burned to think such prize should fall
  To any Scotch or Saxon man,
But find that Nature makes us all
  The children of one world-spread clan.

“Within thy arms thou now dost hold
  A treasure of more worth and cost
Than all the thrones and crowns of gold
  That valour ever won or lost;
Thine is that outward perfect form,
  Thine, too, the subtler inner life,
The love that doth that bright shape warm: 
  Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!”

“They praised thy steed.  With wrath and grief
  I felt my heart within me bleed,
That any but an Irish chief
  Should press the back of such a steed;
I might to yonder smiling land
  The noble beast reluctant lead;
But, no!—­he’d miss thy guiding hand—­
  Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed.

“The praises of thy matchless hound,
  Burned in my breast like acrid wine;
I swore no chief on Irish ground
  Should own a nobler hound than mine;
’Twas rashly sworn, and must not be,
  He’d pine to hear the well-known sound,
With which thou call’st him to thy knee,
  Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound.

“MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you
  This hand beneath God’s blessed sun,
And for the wrong that I might do
  Forgive the wrong that I have done;
To-morrow all that we have ta’en
  Shall doubly, trebly be restored: 
The cattle to the grassy plain,
  The goblets to the oaken board.

“My people from our richest meads
  Shall drive the best our broad lands hold
For every steed a hundred steeds,
  For every steer a hundred-fold;
For every scarlet cloak of state
  A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold;
And may we be with hearts elate
  Still older friends as we grow old.

“Thou’st bravely won an Irish bride—­
  An Irish bride of grace and worth—­
Oh! let the Irish nature glide
  Into thy heart from this hour forth;
An Irish home thy sword has won,
  A new-found mother blessed the strife;
Oh! be that mother’s fondest son,
  And love the land that gives you life!

“Betwixt the Isles and Antrim’s coast,
  The Scotch and Irish waters blend;
But who shall tell, with idle boast,
  Where one begins and one doth end? 
Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam,
  When all our hearts such spell shall feel? 
And blend in one broad Irish stream,
  On Irish ground for Ireland’s weal?