Who have shiver’d the helmet, and cloven the shield;
The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar,
When lances were red from the harvest of war.
Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill
For the lords of the field in their festival’s hour,
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill
That bursts o’er the rock in the pride of its power:
Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn
Of honour and mirth,[165] for the conflict is o’er;
And round let the golden-tipp’d hirlas be borne