Pealed in the blood-red heaven.
Dire was the look that o’er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw:
But now, behold! like cataracts,
Come down the hills in view
O’Connor’s plumèd partisans,
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans
Were marching to their doom:
A sudden storm their plumage tossed,
A flash of lightning o’er them crossed,