| |
| THE LADY OF ANTRIM rose with the morn, | |
| And donned her grandest gear, | |
| And her heart beat fast when a sounding horn | |
| Announced a suitor near; | |
| Hers was a heart so full of pride, | 5 |
| That love had little room, | |
| And faith, I would not wish me such bride, | |
| For all her beautiful bloom. | |
| |
| One suitor there came from the Scottish shore, | |
| Long and lithe and grim; | 10 |
| And a younger one from Dunluce hoar, | |
| And the lady inclined to him. | |
| “But hearken ye, nobles both,” she said, | |
| As soon as they did dine; | |
| “The hand must prove its chieftainry | 15 |
| That putteth a ring on mine. | |
| |
| “But not in the lists with arméd hands | |
| Must this devoir be done, | |
| Yet he who wins my broad, broad lands | |
| Their lady may count as won. | 20 |
| Ye both were born upon the shore, | |
| Were bred upon the sea, | |
| Now let me see you ply the oar, | |
| For the land you love—and me! | |
| |
| “The chief that first can reach the strand | 25 |
| May mount at morn and ride, | |
| And his long day’s ride shall bound his land, | |
| And I will be his bride!” | |
| M’Quillan felt hope in every vein, | |
| As the bold, bright lady spoke; | 30 |
| And M’Donald glanced over his rival again, | |
| And bowed with a bargeman’s stroke. | |
| |
| ’T is summer upon the Antrim shore,— | |
| The shore of shores it is, | |
| Where the white old rocks deep caves arch o’er, | 35 |
| Unfathomed by man, I wis,— | |
| Where the basalt breast of our isle flings back | |
| The Scandinavian surge, | |
| To howl through its native Scaggerack, | |
| Chanting the Viking’s dirge. | 40 |
| |
| ’T is summer,—the long white lines of foam | |
| Roll lazily to the beach, | |
| And man and maid from every home | |
| Their eyes o’er the waters stretch. | |
| On Glenarm’s lofty battlements | 45 |
| Sitteth the lady fair, | |
| And the warm west-wind blows softly | |
| Through the links of her golden hair. | |
| |
| The boats in the distant offing | |
| Are marshalled prow to prow; | 50 |
| The boatmen cease their scoffing, | |
| And bend to the rowlocks now; | |
| Like glory-guided steeds they start,— | |
| Away o’er the waves they bound; | |
| Each rower can hear the beating heart | 55 |
| Of his brother boatman sound. | |
| |
| Nearer! nearer! on they come,— | |
| Row, M’Donald, row! | |
| For Antrim’s princely castle home, | |
| Its lands, and its lady, row! | 60 |
| The chief that first can grasp the strand | |
| May mount at morn and ride, | |
| And his long day’s ride shall bound his land, | |
| And she shall be his bride! | |
| |
| He saw his rival gain apace, | 65 |
| He felt the spray in his wake,— | |
| He thought of her who watched the race | |
| More dear for her dowry sake! | |
| Then he drew his skain from out its sheath, | |
| And lopt off his left hand, | 70 |
| And pale and fierce, as a chief in death, | |
| He hurled it to the strand! | |
| |
| “The chief that first can grasp the strand | |
| May mount at morn and ride.” | |
| O, fleet is the steed which the bloody hand | 75 |
| Through Antrim’s glens doth guide! | |
| And legends tell that the proud ladye | |
| Would fain have been unbanned, | |
| For the chieftain who proved his chieftainry | |
| Lorded both wife and land. | 80 |
| |
