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204 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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His voice is firm, his knee is proud when pomp's imperious tone
Would have the free-born spirit bowed, that right should bow alone;
For well does Kallagh know his due, nor ever seeks he more;
Would heaven mankind were all alike you, my Kallagh dhu asthore!
And Kallagh is an Irishman in sinew, soul and bone; Not e'en the veins of old Slieveban are purer than his
own: The wing of foe has swept our skies, the foreign foe
our shore, But stain or change thy race defies, my Kallagh dhu
asthore!
What wonder, then, each word he said fell o'er my
maiden day, Like breathing o'er the cradle-bed where mothers kiss
and pray; Though dear your form, your cheek, and eye, I loved
those virtues more, Whose bloom nor ills nor years destroy, my Kallagh
dhu asthore!
Oh, could this heart, this throbbing thing, be made a
regal chair, I'd rend its every swelling string, to seat you, Kallagh,
there: And oh, if honest worth the kingly bauble bore, No slave wert thou, my blood, my bone, my Kallagh
dhu asthore ! |
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