An’ it’s he was the boy that was hard to be caught,
   An’ it’s often he run, an’ it’s often he fought,
   An’ it’s many the one can remember right well
   The quare things he done:  an’ it’s often heerd tell
   How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin’ four,
   An’ stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.—­

   But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,
   An’ treachery play on the blood iv the best.—­
   Afther many brave actions of power and pride,
   An’ many a hard night on the bleak mountain’s side,
   An’ a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
   In the darkness of night he was taken at last.

   Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
   For the door of the prison must close on you soon,
   An’ take your last look on her dim lovely light,
   That falls on the mountain and valley this night;—­
   One look at the village, one look at the flood,
   An’ one at the sheltering, far-distant wood. 
   Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
   An’ farewell to the friends that will think of you still;
   Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin’ an’ wake,
   And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake.—­

   An’ twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail,
   An’ the turnkey resaved him, refusin’ all bail;
   The fleet limbs wor chained, an’ the sthrong hands wor bound,
   An’ he laid down his length on the cowld prison ground. 
   An’ the dreams of his childhood kem over him there,
   As gentle an’ soft as the sweet summer air;
   An’ happy rememberances crowding on ever,
   As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river,
   Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by,
   Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. 
   But the tears didn’t fall, for the pride of his heart
   Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start;
   Then he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave,
   An’ he swore with the fierceness that misery gave,
   By the hopes of the good, an’ the cause of the brave,
   That when he was mouldering low in the grave
   His enemies never should have it to boast
   His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost;
   His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry,
   For, undaunted he lived, and undaunted he’d die.

   Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone,
   The terrible day iv the thrial kem on;
   There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
   The sodgers on guard, the dhragoons sword-in-hand. 
   An’ the court-house so full that the people were bothered. 
   Attorneys an’ criers were just upon smothered;
   An’ counsellers almost gev over for dead. 
   The jury sat up in their box overhead;
   An’ the judge on the bench so detarmined an’ big,
   With his gown on his back, and an