I sought my own son over Gowra's black field,
Where the host of the Fians was shattered,
Where fell all our mighty ones, and helmet and shield
O'er the red earth lay shamefully scattered.
I sought my own Oscar and my proud heart upleaped,
As at last on a lone ridge I found him,
His stern hand still clinging to the sword that had reaped
Swathe on swathe of the dead foes around him.

He held out his arms, though the drear mist of death
Had begun o'er his bright eyes to gather.
"I thank God," he faltered with his failing breath,
"That thou still art unhurt, Oh, my father."
Then down, down I knelt by my heart's dearest one,
All else beside himself forgetting;
Till Oscar's proud spirit passed forth like the sun
In a red sea of glory setting.