“An’,” says he, “mother, darlin’, don’t break your poor heart
   For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;
   And God knows it’s betther than wandering in fear
   On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
   To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast
   From labour, and sorrow, for ever shall rest. 
   Then, mother, my darlin’, don’t cry any more,
   Don’t make me seem broken, in this, my last hour;
   For I wish, when my head’s lyin’ undher the raven,
   No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!”
   Then facin’ the judge Shamus bent down his head,
   An’ that minute the solemn death-sintance was said.

   The mornin’ was bright, an’ the mists rose on high,
   An’ the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;—­
   But why are the men standin’ idle so late? 
   An’ why do the crowds gather fast in the street? 
   What come they to talk of? what come they to see? 
   An’ why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?—­
   O, Shamus O’Brien! pray fervent and fast,
   May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;
   Pray fast, an’ pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
   When, sthrong, proud, an’ great as you are, you must die.—­
   An’ fasther an’ fasther, the crowd gathered there,
   Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair;
   An’ whisky was sellin’, an’ cussamuck too,
   An’ the men and the women enjoying the view. 
   An’ ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark,
   There was no sich a sight since the time of Noah’s ark;
   An’ be gorra, ’twas thrue too, for never sich scruge,
   Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge. 
   For thousands were gathered there, if there was one,
   All waitin’ such time as the hangin’ kem on.

   At last they threw open the big prison-gate,
   An’ out came the sheriffs an’ sodgers in state,
   An’ a cart in the middle, an’ Shamus was in it,
   Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute,
   An’ as soon as the people saw Shamus O’Brien,
   Wid prayin’ an’ blessin’, and all the girls cryin’,
   The wild wailin’ sound it kem on by degrees,
   Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin’ through trees. 
   On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,
   An’ the cart an’ the sodgers go steadily on;
   At every side swellin’ around of the cart,
   A sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.

   Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
   An’ the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;
   An’ the priest, havin’ blest him, goes down on the ground,
   An’ Shamus O’Brien throws one look around. 
   Then the hangman dhrew near, an’ the people grew still,
   Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill,
   An’ the rope bein’ ready, his neck was made bare,
   For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare;
   An’ the good priest has left him, havin’ said his last prayer.