Whispering of one who in far-off, hostile places
Strikes a last defending blow for king and home.
And the King pacing lone in his place of High Decision,
Gazing with rapt eyes on that far-flung battle-plain,
Through the red rains rising beholds with startled vision
Sight such as man’s eye shall not see again.
For one there is dying, of his foes at last outnumbered,
One whose soul a sword was, shaped by God’s own hand,
One who guarded Ulaidh when all her knighthood slumbered,
Prone beneath the curse laid of old upon the land.