"Her vallies but echo the voice of her woe,
In the fears of her people I hear her upbraid,
How long shall I bleed to a merciless foe?
How long shall my heart's secret wish be delayed?
But Saint Peter will sanction the welcome divorce.
From him who would ne'er be our maiden's desire;
A monster whose bonds are the fetters of force.
Ne'er by heaven designed for our Sheela na Guire,
"My heart, how it pines when I think of the wretch,8
Without honour or principle, virtue, or truth;
Whose guilt could design, and whose power could
reach
To assail our beloved in the hills of her youth.
I'm the oldest—the last of her sages confest,
And she, dearest maid, can alone still inspire
A joy and content o'er the gloom of my breast.
When Charles shall espouse her, my Sheela na Guire!
