Conall Dead

Ochagon! — here is the head
Of Conall of the keen blue blade:
The head of understanding clear,
The noble, dear, devoted head.

Ochagon! here are the eyes
Of Conall's wise and generous head;
From these the lashes used to rise
And flashes mild and manly sped.

Ochagon! here is the mouth
That north and south the poets praise,
Of slender grace and apple-red,
Like honey shed was Conall's mouth.

Ochagon! here is the hand
Bore Conall son of Scanlan's brand,
The hand that strong in conflict strove,
The hand of Conall — my first love!

Ochagon! here is the side
Where oftentimes ours nobly lay;
From Moyle's gray tide there came a hound
With wile to wound that stainless side.

Ochagon! here are the feet
That ne'er gave way where warriors meet
Feet still first in fiery fray,
The battle-bravest Conall's feet!

Och! and here his Fort for aye,
The strong cold Clay for all the years,
Conall's Fort — where I deplore
Whose tale is o'er — the House of Tears!