All, all like a dream have passed away;
And now we have clerks with their holy qualms,
And books, and bells, and eternal psalms,
And fasting—that waster gaunt and grim,
That strips of all beauty both body and limb.
PATRICK.
Oh! cease this strain, nor longer dare
Thy Fionn, or his chiefs, compare
With him who reigns in matchless might,
The King of kings enthroned in light.