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(344) next ››› Page 170Page 170Fate of the forties

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OF IRELAND.
In the hole, which the vile hands
Of soldiers had made thee ;
Unhonour'd, unslirouded,
And headless they laid thee.
Xo sigh to regret thee,
No eye to rain o'er thee,
No dirge to lament thee,
No friend to deplore thee !
Dear head of my darling,
How gory and pale
These aged eyes see thee,
High spiked on their gaol !
That cheek in the summer sun
Ne'er shaU grow warm ;
Nor that eye e'er catch Ught,
But the flash of the storm.
A curse, blessed ocean,
Is on thy green water.
From the haven of Cork,
To Ivera of slaughter :
Since thy biUows were dyed
With the red wounds of fear,
Of Muiertach Oge,
Our O'SuUivan Bear !

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