Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves,
And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish graves.

The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met their ears,
And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his stormy cheers,
Ay, Shane, across the thundering sea, out-chanting it, your tongue
Flung wild un-Saxon whar-whoopings the Saxon court among.

Just think, O Shane! the same moon shines on Liffey as on Foyle,
And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsmen to despoil:
And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the shield of us and ours,
A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above those Dublin towers.
Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart is paler still-
My heart? I had no heart-'twas yours! to keep or kill.

And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief-your life, your soul, your pride,
But they sought it in thy bosom, Shane-with proud O'Neill it died.

You were turbulent and haughty, proud, and keen as Spanish steel,
But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's Chief - O'Neill ? ·
Who reared aloft the "Bloody hand" until it paled the sun,

And shed such glory on Tyrone as chief had never done,

He was "turbulent" with traitors-he was "haughty with the foe

He was "cruel," say ye Saxons? Ay! he dealt ye blow for blow!

He was "rough" and "wild"— and who's not wild, to see his hearth-stone razed?

-

He was "merciless as fire"-ah, ye kindled him he blazed!
He was "proud”—yes, proud of birth-right, and because he flung away
Your Saxon stars of princedom as the rock does mocking spray!

He was wild, insane for vengeance-ay! and preached it till Tyrone
Was ruddy, ready, wild too, with "Red Hands" to clutch their own!

"The Scots are on the border, Shane!"-- ye saints, he makes no breath!
I remember when that cry would wake him up almost from death:
Art truly dead and cold? O Chief! art thou to Ulster lost?

"Dost hear, dost hear? By Randolph led, the troops the Foyle have crossed!" He's truly dead! he must be dead! nor is his ghost about,

And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a shout!

The pale face droopeth northward — ah! his soul must loom up there,
By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough Foyle, or Bann the Fair!
I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must wander there, proud Shane,
In search of some O'Neill through whom to throb its hate again!