Eamonn an Chnuic

— Who is that out there still
With voice sharp and shrill,
Beating my door and calling?
— I am Ned of the Hill,
Wet, weary and chill,
The mountains and glens long walking.

— O my dear love and true !
What could I do for you
But under my mantle draw you?
For the bullets like hail
Fall thick on your trail,
And together we both may be slaughtered.

— Long lonely I go
Under frost, under snow,
Hunted through hill and through hollow.
No comrade I know :
No furrow I sow :
My team stands unyoked in the fallow:

No friend will give ear
Or harbour me here, —
'Tis that makes the weight of my sorrow !
So my journey must be
To the east o'er the sea
Where no kindred will find me or follow F