And now, at last, all proud deeds done, Mouths dust-stopped, dark they embrace Suitably disposed, as urns, underground. Cattle munching soft spring grass -Epicures of shamrock and the four-leaved clover- Hear a whimper of ancient weapons, As a whole dormitory of heros turn over, Regretting their butchers' days. This valley cradles theirarchaic madness It upheld their savage stride: To bagpiped battle marching, Wolfhounds, lean as models, At their urgent heels.