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Oisin speaks : 



ifn 



Bhin Bolbin thou art sad to day ; 

 Thou that wast erst of aspect gay 



And lovely to be seen ; 

 O son of Calfruin ! then 'twas sweet. 

 To find a soft and mossy seat. 



On its lofty summit green. 



Thou hill of battles, stained with gore. 

 How oft thy fortress strong around. 

 Where dwelt a hero bold of yore. 



Rose music sweet of horn and hound ; 

 The bittern round thee boomed at night, 

 The grouse, loud-whirring in her flight. 

 Peopled thy heath, and every tree 

 Rang with the small birds' melody. 



Yes, 'twas delight to hear the cry 



Of hounds along thy valleys sweep ; 

 To hear the rock's wild son* reply 



From every cliff and steep ; 

 To see the chiefs of the Fenian band. 

 To slip the greyhounds ready stand ; 

 And groups of maidens young and fair. 

 That plucked, as they went, the flowrets rare ; 

 With berries of every form and hue. 

 Of crimson blush, or of glossy blue. 

 From bramble and bush ; or cresses young. 

 That by the crystal streamlet sprung : 

 And passing sweet was the voice of their song. 

 As the fair-haired damsels roved along. 



* Mac-alla, echo ; literally, the son of the rock. 



