Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour;
For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,
No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"
Then facin' the judge Shamus bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death-sintance was said.
The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;--
But why are the men standin' idle so late?
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street?
What come they to talk of? what come they to see?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?--
O, Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast,
May the saints take your soul, for _this_ day is your _last_;
Pray fast, an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die.--
An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there,
Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair;
An' whisky was sellin', an' cussamuck too,
An' the men and the women enjoying the view.
An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark,
There was no sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark;
An' be gorra, 'twas thrue too, for never sich scruge,
Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge.
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