Along the dread defile. Upon the ridge
His men by Morton ranged their firelocks keen
Discharged. ’Mongst clustering shrubs his rifles green
Did Nial gather lower down the steep.
Oh, dire the calls of duty oft had been,
But direst this! The chieftains almost weep;
The men avert their heads, Death’s harvest while they reap.
XXIX.
For pistol-shot might reach the hastening throng,
Who through the horrid chasm defenceless crowd.