to be the slaves of death;
Now darting wide, now swerving round,
Now clashed together in a bound,
With splitting swords that smote so fast,
As hour by hour unheeded past.

The sands were torn and tossed like spray
Before the whirlwind of the fray,
That waged in fury till the sun
Sank, and the day's last loops were spun--
Then terrible was Goll ... He rose
A tempest of increasing blows,
More furious and fast, as dim,
Uncertain twilight fell ... More grim
And great he grew as, looming large,
He fought, and pressing to the marge
Of ocean, he o'erpowered and drave
The Viking hero back; till wave
O'er ready wave that hurried fleet,
Snuffled and snarled about their feet ...

Then with a mighty shout that made
The rocks around him ring, his blade
Swept like a flash of fire to smite
The last fell blow in that fierce fight--
So great Conn perished like The Red
By Goll's left hand ... his life-blood spread
Over the quenching sands where rolled
His head entwined with locks of gold.
Then passed like thunder o'er the sea
The Fian shout of victory.
And, trembling on the tossing ships,
The Vikings heard, with voiceless lips
And dim, despairing eyes ... Alone
Stood Goll, and like a silent stone
Bulking upon a ben-side bare,
He bent above the hero fair--
Remembering the mighty Red,
And wondering that Conn lay dead.

[Footnote 1: May Day.]

[Footnote 2: Traditional Holy Hill]

THE SONG OF GOLL.

O Son of The Red,
Undone and laid dead--
The blood of a hero
My cold blade hath shed.

Who fought me to-day?
Who sought me to slay?--
The son of yon High King
I slew in the fray.

O blade that yon brave
Low laid in the grave,
Ye gladdened the Fians
But grief to Conn gave.

Stone-hearted and strong,
Lone-hearted with long,
Dark brooding, he sought to
Avenge his deep wrong.

Fair Son of The Red,
Care none thou art dead?--
Old Goll of Clan Morna
Will mourn thou hast bled.

O where shall be found
To share with thee round
The halls of Valhalla
Thy glory renowned?

O true as the blade
That slew thee, and made
My fear and thine anger
For ever to fade--

Ah! when upon earth
Again will have birth
A son of such honour
And bravery and worth?

Above thee in splendour
A love that could render
Brave service, burned star-like
And constant and tender.

With fearing my name,
With hearing my fame,
O none would dare combat
With Goll till Conn came? ...

O great was thine ire