V.
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f Brian's birth strange tales were told.His mother watched a midnight fold,Built deep within a dreary glen,Where scattered lay the bones of menIn some forgotten battle slain,And bleached by drifting wind and rain.It might have tamed a warrior's heartTo view such mockery of his art!The knot-grass fettered there the handWhich once could burst an iron band;Beneath the broad and ample bone,That bucklered heart to fear unknown,A feeble and a timorous guest,The fieldfare framed her lowly nest;There the slow blindworm left his slimeOn the fleet limbs that mocked at time;And there, too, lay the leader's skullStill wreathed with chaplet, flushed and full,For heath-bell with her purple bloomSupplied the bonnet and the plume.All night, in this sad glen the maidSat shrouded in her mantle's shade:She said no shepherd sought her side,No hunter's hand her snood untied.Yet ne'er again to braid her hairThe virgin snood did Alive wear;Gone was her maiden glee and sport,Her maiden girdle all too short,Nor sought she, from that fatal night,Or holy church or blessed riteBut locked her secret in her breast,And died in travail, unconfessed.
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