12
“Rise, spirits of yore,
Ever dauntless in danger!
For the land that was yours
Is the land of the stranger.
O come from your caverns
All bloodless and hoary,
And these fiends of the valley
Shall tremble before ye!”
Kathleen O'More.
My love, I think that I see her once more,
But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore,
My own little Kathleen, my poor last Kathleen,
My Kathleen, O.
Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,
Her colour still changing, her smiles were ever new,
So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,
My Kathleen, O.
She milk'd the dun cow, that ne’er offer’d to stir;
Though wicked it was, it was gentle to her,
So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen, O.
She sat at the door one cold afternoon,
So hear the wind blow and to look at the moon,
So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
