THE GERALDINE'S DAUGHTER

Speak low!—speak low—the banshee is crying; Hark! hark to the echo!—she's dying! 'she's dying.' What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water? 'Tis the swan of the lake—'tis the Geraldine's Daughter. Hush, hush! have you heard what the banshee said? O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!' No shadow now dims the face of the water; Gone, gone is the wraith of the Geraldine's Daughter. The step of yon train is heavy and slow, There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe; What melody rolls over mountain and water? 'Tis the funeral chant of the Geraldine's Daughter. The requiem sounds like the plaintive moan Which the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone; 'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her! O, why did she die, the Geraldine's Daughter?' The thistle-beard floats—the wild roses wave With the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave; The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water, While night-birds are wailing the Geraldine's Daughter.

By Memory inspired, And love of country fired, The deeds of Men I love to dwell upon; And the patriotic glow Of my spirit must bestow A tribute to O'Connell that is gone, boys, gone! Here's a memory to the friends that are gone. In October 'Ninety-seven— May his soul find rest in Heaven— William Orr to execution was led on: The jury, drunk, agreed That Irish was his creed; For perjury and threats drove them on, boys, on: Here's the memory of John Mitchell that is gone. In 'Ninety-Eight—the month July— The informer's pay was high; When Reynolds gave the gallows brave MacCann; But MacCann was Reynolds' first— One could not allay his thirst; So he brought up Bond and Byrne, that are gone, boys, gone. Here's the memory of the friends that are gone! We saw a nation's tears Shed for John and Henry Shears; Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong; We may forgive, but yet We never can forget The poisoning of Maguire that is gone, boys, gone— Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone! How did Lord Edward die? Like a man, without a sigh; But he left his handiwork on Major Swan! But Sirr, with steel-clad breast, And coward heart at best, Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys, gone: Here's the memory of our friends that are gone! September, Eighteen-three, Closed this cruel history, When Emmett's blood the scaffold flowed upon O, had their spirits been wise, They might then realize Their freedom—but we drink to Mitchell that is gone, boys, gone: Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!