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 Those wretches shall find that that my father is brave.

My father she cried, with the wildest emotion,

“Ah, no! my poor father now' sleeps in the grave.

The have tolled his death bell, they have laid the turf o'er him.

His white locks were bloody, no aid could restore him;

He is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him,

When the blue waves of Erin hide Mary le More.”

A lark from the gold-blossom’d furze that grew near her,

Now rose and with energy earol’d his lay,

“Hush hush” she continued, “the trumpet sounds clearer,

The horsrmenhorsemen [sic] aoproachapproach [sic]! Erin’s daughters away!

Ah ! soldiers twas foul while the cabin was burning,

And o’er a pale father a wretch had been mourning,

Go hide with the seamew ye maids and take warning,

Those rrffiansruffians [sic] have ruin’d poor Mary le More.

“Away! bring the ointment! O God! see those gashes!

! my poor brother, come, dry the big tear;