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Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves,
The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met their ears,
Just think, O Shane! the same moon shines on Liffey as on Foyle,
And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief-your life, your soul, your pride,
You were turbulent and haughty, proud, and keen as Spanish steel,
And shed such glory on Tyrone as chief had never done,
He was "turbulent" with traitors-he was "haughty with the foe
He was "cruel," say ye Saxons? Ay! he dealt ye blow for blow!
He was "rough" and "wild"—and who's not wild, to see his hearth-stone razed?
He was "merciless as fire"-ah, ye kindled him he blazed!
He was "proud"—yes, proud of birth-right, and because he flung away
Your Saxon stars of princedom as the rock does mocking spray!
He was wild, insane for vengeance-ay! and preached it till Tyrone
Was ruddy, ready, wild too, with "Red Hands" to clutch their own!
"The Scots are on the border, Shane!". --ye saints, he makes no breath!I remember when that cry would wake him up almost from death: Art truly dead and cold? O Chief! art thou to Ulster lost?
"Dost hear, dost hear? By Randolph led, the troops the Foyle have crossed!" He's truly dead! he must be dead! nor is his ghost about,
And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a shout!
The pale face droopeth northward- ah! his soul must loom up there,