And many a yard before we reached the threshold of his door,
We heard the keeners, as they screeched, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’
“We entered soft, for feelings sad were stirring in our breast,
To take our farewell of the lad who now was gone to rest;
We took a drop of Dan’s potheen,[[28]] and joined the piteous roar;
Oh, where shall be his fellow seen, since Daniel is no more?
“His was the fist, whose weighty dint did Oliver defeat,
His was the fist that gave the hint it need not oft repeat.
His was the fist that overthrew his rivals o’er and o’er;
But now we cry, in phillalu, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’