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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
X.
‘O King, the battle goes as though
God weighed two nations in His scale;
And now the fates of Eire sink low,
Now theirs that wear the mail:
God weighed two nations in His scale;
And now the fates of Eire sink low,
Now theirs that wear the mail:
‘O King, thy sons, through God's decree,
Are dead save one, the best of all,
Murrough—and now, ah woe is me!
I see his standard fall!’
Are dead save one, the best of all,
Murrough—and now, ah woe is me!
I see his standard fall!’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |