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398 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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And all of the grim-faced battle, With clash and yell and neigh,
Dashed on a knot of warriors Set in a rank at bay.
Ossian looked, and he knew them, Knew each man of them well,
Knew his friends, the Fianna, There in the pit of hell.
There was his very father,
Leader of all their bands, Finn, the terrible wrestler, Griping with giant hands;
Oscar with edged blade smiting, Caoilte with charging lance,
And Diarmuid poising his javelin, Nimble as in the dance;
Conan, the crop-eared stabber, Aiming a slant-way stroke,
And the fiery Lugach leaping Where the brunt of battle broke.
But in front of all by a furlong, There in the hell-light pale,
Was the champion, Gull MacMorna, Winding a monstrous flail.
And still the flail as he swung it Sang through the maddened air,
Singing the deeds of heroes, A song of the days that were. |
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