with crosses ghostly white;

Under a weary weight of years

he bow'd upon his staff,

Perusing in the present time

the former's epitaph;

For, gray and wasted like the walls,

a figure full of woe,

This man was of the blood of them

who founded Asaroe.

From Derry to Bundrowas Tower,

Tirconnell broad was theirs;

Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine,

and holy abbot's prayers;

With chanting always in the house

which they had builded high

To God and to Saint Bernard,—

where at last they came to die.

At worst, no workhouse grave for him!

the ruins of his race

Shall rest among the ruin'd stones

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