Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines?
Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines?
With tear and sigh they're passing by — the matron and the maid —
Has a hero died — is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid?
With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on —
Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites are done?