I'm a fart in a gale of wind, a humble violet under a cow pat.
The gale, it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard,'twill soon be gone: To-day the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon.
Proudly the note of the trumpet is sounding, Loudly the war-cries arise on the gale, Fleetly the steed by Loc Suilig is bounding To join the thick squadrons in Saimear's green vale. On, every mountaineer, Strangers to flight and fear: Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh! Bonnought and gallowglass, Throng from each mountain-pass! On for old ErinO'Donnell abu!
Beauteous the fleet before the gale; Beauteous the multitudes in mail, Rank'd arms and crested heads: Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild, Walk, water, meditated wild, And all the bloomy beds.
Webster's New World Dictionary of Quotations Copyright © 2010 by Chambers Harrap Publishers Ltd. All rights reserved. Published by Wiley, Hoboken, NJ. Used by arrangement with John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
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