The hill pines were sighing, br O'ercast and chill was the day: br A mist in the valley lying br Blotted the pleasant May. br br But deep in the glen's bosom br Summer slept in the fire br Of the odorous gorse-blossom br And the hot scent of the brier. br br A ribald cuckoo clamoured, br And out of the copse the stroke br Of the iron axe that hammered br The iron heart of the oak. br br Anon a sound appalling, br As a hundred years of pride br Crashed, in the silence falling; br And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.