THE FIGHTING-MAN

A fighting-man he was,

Guts and soul;

His blood as hot and red

As that on Cain's hand-towel.

A copper-skinned six-footer,

Hewn out of the rock.

Who would stand up against

His hammer-knock?

Not a sinner —

No, and not one dared!

Giants showed clean heels

When his arm was bared.

I've seen him swing an anvil

Fifty feet,

Break a bough in two,

And tear a twisted sheet.

And the music of his roar —

Like oaks in thunder cleaving;

Lips foaming red froth,

And flanks heaving.

God! a goodly man,

A Gael, the last

Of those that stood with Dan

On Mullach-Maist!