THE DIRGE OF EDWARD BRUCE.
A.D. 1318.
I
He is dead, dead, dead!
The man to Erin dear!
The King who gave our Isle a head—
His kingdom is his bier.
He rode into our war;
And we crown'd him chief and prince
For his race to Alba's shore
Sailed from Erin, ages since.
Woe, woe, woe!
Edward Bruce is cold to-day;
He that slew him lies as low,
Sword to sword and clay to clay.
II
King Robert came too late!
Long, long may Erin mourn!
Famine's rage and dreadful Fate
Forbade her Bannockburn!
As the galley touch'd the strand
Came the messenger of woe;
The King put back the herald's hand:
‘Peace,’ he said, ‘thy tale I know!
His face was in the cloud;
And his wraith was on the surge.’—
Maids of Alba, weave his shroud!
Maids of Erin, sing his dirge!
