Strong Son of Fergus, with thy latest breathThou hast lent a joy unto the funeral knell,Welcoming with thy whispered 'All is well'The awful aspect of the Angel Death:As strong in life, thou couldst not brook to shunThe heat and burthen of the fiery day,Fronting defeat with stalwart undismay,And wearing meekly honours stoutly won.Pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were thine, as ayeErin demanded from her bards of old,And therefore on thy harp-strings of pure goldHas waked once more her high heroic lay.What shoulders now shall match the mighty foldOf Ossian's mantle? Thou hast passed away.
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