Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79.
Argan Mór
By Thomas Davis (1814–1845)T
To the edge of the fosse they bound;
Hark! hark, to their trumpets’ sound,
Bidding them to the war!
Hark! hark, to their cruel cry,
As they swear our hearts’ cores to dry,
And their raven red to dye;
Glutting their demon, Thor.
Here ’s the fiery Ceallachàn,—
He makes the Lochlonnach wan,
Lifting his brazen spear!
Ivor, the Dane, is struck down,
For the spear broke right through his crown.
Yet worse did the battle frown,—
Anlaf is on our rear!
And in—in, like a cloud of smoke,
Burst on the dark Danish folk,
Charging us everywhere,—
O, never was closer fight
Than in Argan Mór that night,—
How little do men want light,
Fighting within their lair.
On the thick of the foes we spring,—
Down—down we trample and fling,
Gallantly though they strive;
And never our falchions stood,
Till we were all wet with their blood,
And none of the pirate brood
Went from the Rath alive!