Seven hundred men, in house or field,
For the man they mocked, lie cold."

"Their wives, thou Bard? their wives? their wives?
Far off, or nigh, through Inisfail,
This hour what are they? Stand they mute
Like me; or make their wail?"

"O Eimer! women weep and smile;
The young have hope, the young that mourn;
But I am old; my hope was he:
He that can ne'er return!

"O Conal! lay me in his grave:
Oh! lay me by my husband's side:
Oh! lay my lips to his in death;"
She spake, and, standing, died.

She fell at last--in death she fell -
She lay, a black shade, on the ground;
And all her women o'er her wailed
Like sea-birds o'er the drowned.

Thus to the blind chief sang that harper blind,
Hymning the vengeance; and the great hall roared
With wrath of those wild listeners. Many a heel
Smote the rough stone in scorn of them that died
Not three days past, so seemed it! Direful hands,
Together dashed, thundered the Avenger's praise.
At last the tide of that fierce tumult ebbed