The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves ... Second Edition |
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THE MARCH OF THE MAGUIRE |
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 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
THE MARCH OF THE MAGUIRE
My grief, Hugh Maguire,
That to-night you must go
To wreak your just ire
On our murderous foe;
For, hark! as the blast
Thro' the bowed wood raves past,
The great oaks, aghast,
Rock, reel and crash below.
That to-night you must go
To wreak your just ire
On our murderous foe;
For, hark! as the blast
Thro' the bowed wood raves past,
The great oaks, aghast,
Rock, reel and crash below.
Uncheered of your spouse,
Without comfort or care,
All night you must house
In some lone, shaggy lair;
The lightning your lamp,
For your sentry the tramp
Of the thunder round your camp;
Hark! 'tis there, 'tis there!
Without comfort or care,
All night you must house
In some lone, shaggy lair;
The lightning your lamp,
For your sentry the tramp
Of the thunder round your camp;
Hark! 'tis there, 'tis there!
But to-morrow your sword
More terrific shall sweep
On our foe's monstrous horde
Than this storm o'er the steep;
And his mansions limewhite
Flame with fearfuller light
Than yon bolts thro' black night
Hurled blazing down the deep.
More terrific shall sweep
On our foe's monstrous horde
Than this storm o'er the steep;
And his mansions limewhite
Flame with fearfuller light
Than yon bolts thro' black night
Hurled blazing down the deep.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |