  When they made the road across the bog of Lamrach for Pile on the soil; thrust on the soil: Red are the oxen around who toil: Heavy the troops that my words obey; Heavy they seem, and yet men are they. Strongly, as piles, are the tree-trunks placed: Red are the wattles above them laced: Tired are your hands, and your glances slant; One woman's winning this toil may grant! Oxen ye are, but revenge shall see; Men who are white shall your servants be; Rushes from Teffa are cleared away; Grief is the price that the man shall pay: Stones have been cleared from the rough Meath ground; Where shall the gain or the harm be found? Thrust it in hand! Force it in hand! Nobles this night, as an ox-troop, stand; Hard is the task that is asked, and who From the bridging of Lamrach shall gain, or rue? A. H. Leahy. |
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