Two thousand years agone
They heaped my battle-grave,
And each a tear and each a stone
My mourning warriors gave;
For I had borne me well,
And fought as patriots fight,
Till, like a British chief, I fell,
Contending for the right.
Seamed with many a wound,
All weakly did I lie;
My foes were dead or dying round,
And thus I joyed to die!
For their marauding crew
Came treacherously to kill;
The many came against the few,
To storm our sacred hill.
We battled, and we bled,
We won, and paid the price,
For I, the chief, lay down with the dead.
A willing sacrifice!
My liegemen wailed me long,
And treasured up my bones,
And reared my kist secure and strong
With tributary stones;
High on the breezy down
My native hill's own breast,
Nigh to the din of mine ancient town,
They left me to my rest.
I hoped for peace and calm
Until my judgment hour,
And then to awake for the victor's palm
And patriot's throne of power!
And lo, till this dark day
Did men my grave revere;
Two thousand years had passed away,
And still I slumbered here:
But now there broke a noise
Upon my silent home;
'Twas not the Resurrection voice
That burst my turfy tomb,
But men of prying mind—
Alas! my fellow-men—
Ravage my grave my bones to find,
With sacrilegious ken!
Mine honour doth abjure
Your new barbarian race;
Restore, restore my bones secure
To some more secret place!
With mattock and with spade
Ye dare to break my rest;
The pious mound is all unmade
My clan had counted blest.
Take, take my buckler's boss,
My sword, and spear, and chain;
Steal all ye can of this world's dross,
But—rest my bones again!
I know your modern boast
Is light, and learning's spread:
Learn of a Celt to show them most
In honour to the dead!