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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 447 |
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Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river
side, He hammered on the foes' pontoon, to sink it in the
tide; The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack
or strain — " Mavrone,'twon't break," the blacksmith roared;
" I'll try their heads again ! "
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The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bellows
strong; He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o'er it sang no
song: " Ochon ! my boys are dead," he cried; " their loss
I'll long deplore, But comfort's in my heart—their graves are red with
foreign gore! "
THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY
I
sat within the valley green, I sat me with my true love; My sad heart strove the two between, The old love and the new love; The old for her, the new that made
Me think on Ireland dearly, While soft the wind blew down the glade, And shook the golden barley. |
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'Twas hard the woeful words to frame To break the ties that bound us; |
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