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!