THE FIGHTING-MAN
Reading edition
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!