Of their origin we know nothing. They may have been monuments erected over the mighty dead; or memorials of great events that took place where they stand. But as we look on them, still standing in their silent strength, and defying all our efforts to pierce the mysteries of the long buried past, one voice we seem to hear, and it is that which cries: “All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of the field.” (Portnoo: A Corner in the Donegal Highlands, 1900 R. AE. Baillie)
