And now, at last, all proud deeds done,
Mouths dust-stopped, dark they embrace
Suitably disposed, as urns, underground.
Cattle munching soft spring grass
-Epicures of shamrock and the four-leaved clover-
Hear a whimper of ancient weapons,
As a whole dormitory of heros turn over,
Regretting their butchers' days.
This valley cradles theirarchaic madness
It upheld their savage stride:
To bagpiped battle marching,
Wolfhounds, lean as models,
At their urgent heels.

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