A Song of the Sword

It was welded in fires of Eve's own kindling, and tempered in tears that Lilith wept, 
Fires that were tended of Dhoul and Druid and Gods that woke while the others slept. 
And the fire was hallowed with prayers and sighing of saints that took it for sleeping-place, 
With life unborn and with life undying, with prayers unanswered and granted grace. 

The fire was watched of the dark Fomoroh, from wistful twilight to windy dawn, 
De Dananns fed it with quicken-branches, the wild Shee came from their dancing lawn! 
They sang wild songs to the red fire's flashing, they sang to the red fire's falling glow, 
And ours are the fire and the sword it welded, but free for us now the wild songs go. 

The fire's forlorn of the wayward singing, but rich it kindles and richer now 
By crimson stones that the dark Fomoroh stripped for its pleasure, from breast and brow. 
It called for wood and we brought it quicken, it cried for dew and we brought it blood, 
We sent pale colleens its flame to strengthen, to tread the deeps of its crimson flood. 

We gave it blood and we gave it blossoms, gold coins and amber and golden hair, 
Kings' daughters fed with their flower its hunger, and the sons of kings were its playthings fair. 
Its eager arms for a Danann princess reached out not long in a vain desire, 
It has given the sword to be our servant, and we are the servants of the fire.