'Twas on the Belfast mountain I heard a maid complain She vexed the soft June evening with her heartbroken strain, Saying, “Woe is me, life's anguish is more than I can dream, Since Henry Joy McCracken died on the gallows tree.”
At Donegore he proudly rode and he wore a suit of green, And proud though vain at Antrim his sword flashed lightning keen, And when by spies surrounded his band to Slemish fled, He came unto the Cavehill to rest a weary head.
I watched for him each night long as in our cot he slept, At daybreak in the heather to MacArt's fort we came News came from Greencastle that a good ship anchored nigh And down by yon wee fountain we met to say good-bye.
He said, “My love, be cheerful, for tears and fears are vain.” He said, “My love, be hopeful for our land will rise again.” He kissed me three times o'er Saying, “Death shall never part us, my love, for evermore.”
That night I climbed the Cavehill and watched till morning blazed And when the fire had kindled, across the Lough I gazed I saw an English tender at anchor off Garmoyle But alas! no good ship bore him away to France's soil.
Twice that night a tramping came from the old shore road. 'Twas Ellis and his yeoman McNiblock with them strode. My father home returning the doleful story told, “Alas,” he says, “young Harry Joy for fifty pound is sold.”
“Was it true?” I asked her. “Oh, 'tis true,” she said. “This is the heart that loved him and nursed his gory head. And every night, pale bleeding, his ghost comes into my side. My Harry, my dead Harry, comes for his promised bride.”
And now on the Belfast mountains, a fair maid's voice is still At Dunakill they laid her high o'er Carnamoney Hill. And the sad waves beneath her chant a requiem for the dead But the rebel wind shrieks freedom above her weary head.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
