  O Ness, let all men stand,The hour of thy peril is at hand; Pale daughter of old Eochad Buidhe the mild We rise to greet thy child! Wife of the ruddy palms Let not thy mind be filled with terror's qualms; The head of hosts, the one Whom thousands shall extol, shall be thy son. In the same timely hour upon this earth He and the King of the World have their birth; Through the long ages' gloom Now and to the day of doom Praises shall echo through the realm of life. Heroes, at sight of him, cease their strife; Hostages they twain shall never be The Christ and he. On the plain of Inisfail he shall come forth, On the flagstone of the meadow to the North. Through the great world his glory will extend; The king of grace is he, The Hound of Ulster he; But and if he falls, Darkness and woe descend on Erin's halls. Conchobhar, son of Ness "ungentle," is his name; Raids and red routs his valour will proclaim. There he will find his death Where the expiring breath Of the suffering God his vengeful sword demands, In the dark hour upon the Holy Lands; Shining his red sword's track, Over the sloping plain of Liam's back. FOOTNOTES: |
|
