Where Ulster’s tributes prodigally spent,
And Connaught’s tributes were poured into thee,
Deserted though thou art this night!
From thee have we beheld—delightful sight!—
From the high pinnacles of thy purple turrets,
Long lines of ships at the approach of May,
With masts and snow-white sails.
From the high pinnacles of thy white watch-towers
We have seen the fleetness of the youthful steeds,
The bounding of the hounds, the joyous chase,