JACOBITE RELICS.
87
JOHN O'DWYER OF THE GLEN.1
BY THOMAS FURLONG.
Blithe the bright dawn found me.
Rest with strength had crown'd me.
Sweet the birds sung round me,
Sport was all their toil.
The horn its clang was keeping,
Forth the fox was creeping,
Round each dame stood weeping,
O'er that prowler's spoil.
Hark, the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling.
Scenes and sights appalling
Mark the wasted soil.
