Who let him through the gates of my garden,
Where stronger bolts have never been?
'Twas the father of the fair little lady
You drove to her grave so green.
And who let him pass through the courtyard,
By loosening the bar and chain?
Oh, who but the brother of your mistress
Who lies in the cold and the rain!
Then who drew the bolts at the portal
And into my house bade him go?
She, the mother of the poor little colleen
Who lies in her youth so low.
Who stands that he dare not enter
The door of my chamber between?
Oh, the ghost of the fair little lady
Who lies in the church-yard green.
Now, when the evil one saw the spirit of the young bride at the door, her arms spread out in the form of a cross, he did not know what to do. And had not Black Roderick, in his joy and desire, sprung from his bed on
