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Escolma. O derradeiro celta      
Manuel Lago González       mes de Santiago do 1883
 


                                                                Chega ond'a cerca do castro,
                                                         mira pro fondo do val,
                                                         finca na parede o codo,
                                                         deita a cabeza na mau,
                                                         e namentras que coa outra
                                                         arricando musgue está,
                                                         pensatible, triste e morno,
                                                         así se pon a falar:

                                                                -Alá van os nosos eidos,
                                                         a miña casa alá vay;
                                                         xa me mataron os fillos,
                                                         matárom'a muller xa;
                                                         morreron os nosos homes
                                                         que souperon peleyar,
                                                         morréron-nos os druidas
                                                         servidores de Teutás,
                                                         e matáron-nos as virxes
                                                         que'andaban ó pé do altar
                                                         ca fouce d'ouro no cinto
                                                         y-a vara verde na mau.
                                                         Xa queimaron a devesa
                                                         consagrada á soledá...

                                                                Ay! Cando funguen os ventos
                                                         nas polas do castañal
                                                         xa non ruxirán as armas
                                                         qu'alí tiñan nosos pais...!
                                                         Donde fixemos fogueiras
                                                         os carrascos nacerán,
                                                         e no dolmen en que'ibámos
                                                         de noite a sacrificar,
                                                         criáranse herbas e toxos
                                                         y-os mouchos aniñarán...
                                                         Cobrirán silvas y-adreiras
                                                         as pedras do noso lar,
                                                         e sobr'as mámoas dos mortos
                                                         xente allea pasará...
                                                         Cando se mova o penedo
                                                         qu'está na veira do mar
                                                         xa non irá xente nosa
                                                         con ofrendas a Teutás,
                                                         Ay! De todo o que nós temos
                                                         nin migallas quedarán...!

                                                                Así dixo o vello, e séntase,
                                                         cravando os ollos no chan.
                                                         E ó pé do castro, qu'as brétemas
                                                         da noite cubrindo van,
                                                         tamén de loito cuberto
                                                         maxinando tanto mal,
                                                         soliño, entr'as negras ruinas,
                                                         sóltase, o probe, a chorar!

                                                                        Sobreiras (Tuy)