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!