But the sound of a maniac's curse
Rings ever and aye round the castle-walls
That shelter the grim Fitz-Urse.
For the gory head of a patriot sire
Shall smile on a long-lost son,
Ere an island home shall be girt with fire,
And a victory lost and won.
There's an empty chair in the ingle-nook,
And a trivet against the wall;
There's a ghastly stain in the Domesday book,