Page:Irish minstrelsy, vol 2 - Hardiman.djvu/101

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JACOBITE RELICS.
89

War and confiscation
Curse the fallen nation;
Gloom and desolation
Shade the lost land o'er.

Chill the winds are blowing,
Death aloft is going;
Peace or hope seems growing
For our race no more.

Hark the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling,
Scenes and sights appalling
Throng our blood-stained shore.

Where's my goat to cheer me.
Now it plays not near me;
Friends no more can hear me;
Strangers round me stand.