Ossian Collection > Fragments of ancient poetry

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The race of Fingal ftood on thy
banks, like a wood in a fertile foil.
Keen were their fpears of fteel. Hardy
was he who dared to encounter their
rage. Fillan the great was there. Thou
Ofcur wert there, my fon ! Fingal him-
felf was there, ftrong in the grey locks
of years. Full rofe his linewy limbs ;
and wide his fhoulders fpread. The
unhappy met with his arm, when the
pride of his wrath arofe.
The fon of Morny came; Gaul, the
talleft of men. He ftood on the hill like
an oak ; his voice was like the ftreams of
the hill. Why reigneth alone, he cries,
the fon of the mighty Corval,? Fingal is
not ftrong to fave : he is no fupport for
the people. I am ftrong as a ftorm in
the ocean ; as a whirlwind on the hill.
Yield, fon of Corval ; Fingal, yield to
me.
OscuR