While hierarchs are blessing, the slipper they fling
And O’Cahan proclaims him a True Irish King.
“Thrice looked he to heaven with thanks and with prayer,
Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare—
To the waves of Lough Neagh, to the heights of Strabane;
And thrice to his allies, and thrice to his clan—
One clash on their bucklers—one more—they are still—
What means the deep pause on the crest of the hill?
Why gaze they above him? A war eagle’s wing!
‘’Tis an omen—hurrah for the True Irish King!’”