No more, dispelling battle's gloom,
Shall son to me from fight return;
The great green rath's ten-acred tomb
Lies heavy on his urn.
A cup of bodkin-pencilled clay
Holds Oscar; mighty heart and limb
One handful now of ashes grey:
And she has died for him.
And here, hard by her natal bower
On lone Ben-Edar's side we strive