One word more—for signal token,
Whistle up the marchin' tune,
"With your pike upon your shoulder
By the risin' of the moon."
Out from many a mud-wall cabin,
Eyes were watching through that night:
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the valley,
Like the banshee's lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing,
At the risin' of the moon.
There beside the singing river
That dark mass of men was seen,
Far above the shining weapons
Hung their own beloved green.
"Death to every foe and traitor!
Forward, strike the marchin' tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom!
'Tis the risin' of the moon."
Well, they fought for poor old Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate.
(Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of Ninety-eight! )
Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating
Hearts in manhood's burning moon,
Who would follow in their footsteps
At the risin' of the moon!
THE SADDEST SIGHT.
When a woman her home would decorate,
She stops not at obstacles small or great;
But the funniest sight her trials afford
Is when madam essays to saw a board.