Tall man, whom Harry loves but ill

Tall man, whom Harry loves but ill, Thou'st had reverses, breath'st thou still? If so, with fire-spear seek the fray, Come, and thy target broad display. From land of Rome, which glory's light Environs, come in armour dight, With writ, which bears the blest impression Of Peter's seal, to take possession. Big Bull! from eastern climates speed, Bursting each gate would thee impede. Flash from thy face shall fiery rays, On thee shall all with reverence gaze. Fair Eagle! earl of trenchant brand! Betake thee to the Lochlin land, Whose sovereign on his buckler square, Sign of success, is wont to bear Three lions blue, through fire to see Like azure, and steel-fetters three. We'll trust, far casting black despair, Hence in the peacock, hog and bear! For O the three shall soon unite, A dread host in the hour of fight. Launch forth seven ships, do not delay, Launch forth seven hundred, tall and gay; From the far north, at Mona's pray'r, To verdant Eirin's shore repair. To seek O'Neil must be thy task, And at his hand assistance ask; Ere feast of John we shall not fail To hear a rising of the Gael: Through the wild waste to Dublin town Shall come a leader of renown. Prepare a fleet with stout hearts mann'd From Irishmen's dear native land. Come thou who did'st by treachery fall, Where'er thou art my soul is all. Yellow and red, before a feast, The colours are, the Erse love best, Deck with the same, their hearts to win, The banner old of Llywellin. Call Britain's host (may woe betide England for treachery!) to thy side; Come to our land, tough steel, and o'er The islands rule, an Emperor; A fire ignite on shore of Mon Staunch Eagle! ere an hour be flown. The castles break, retreats of care, Conquer of Caer Ludd's dogs the lair! Mona's gold horn! the Normans smite, Kill the mole and his men outright: A prophecy there stands from old, That numerous battles thou shalt hold; Where'er thou'st opportunity Fight the tame Lion furiously; Fierce shall thy hands' work prove, I trow, Dying and dead shall Merwyg strow; War shall my Chief through summer wage, That the wheel turn, my life I'll gage; Like to the burst of Derri's stream The onset of his war shall seem. With Mona's flag through Iaithon's glen Shall march a host of armed men: Nine fights he'll wage and then have done, Successful in them every one. Come heir of Cadwallader blest, And thy sire's land from robbers wrest: Take thou the portion that's thine own, Us from the chains 'neath which we groan.