His tasselled horn beside him laid;
Now o’er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!
Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain
That cross the twilight of her brain;
Yet she will tell you she is blest,
Of Connocht Moran’s tomb possessed,
More richly than in Aghrim’s bower,
When bards high praised her beauty’s power,
And kneeling pages offered up