And where O’Nial’s race alone
Had sat upon the regal throne.
While the fisherman thought of the days of old
The sun had left the western sky
And the moon had risen a lamp of gold,
Ere O’Nial deemed that the eve was nigh,
He turned his boat to the mountain side
And it darted away o’er the rippling tide;
Like arrow from an Indian bow
Shot o’er the waves the glancing prow.