illigent wig;
   Then silence was called, and the minute ’twas said
   The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
   An’ they heard but the turn of a key in a lock,—­
   An’ Shamus O’Brien kem into the dock.—­

   For a minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
   An’ he looked at the irons, so firm and so strong,
   An’ he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,
   A chance of escape, nor a word to defend;
   Then he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
   As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
   And they read a big writin’, a yard long at laste,
   An’ Jim didn’t hear it, nor mind it a taste,
   An’ the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,
   “Are you guilty or not, Jim O’Brien, av you plase?”
   An’ all held their breath in the silence of dhread
   As Shamus O’Brien made answer and said: 

   “My lord, if you ask me, if ever a time
   I have thought any treason, or done any crime
   That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
   The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
   Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow,
   Before God and the world I would answer you, No!’
   But—­if you would ask me, as I think it like,
   If in the rebellion I carried a pike,
   An’ fought for me counthry from op’ning to close,
   An’ shed the heart’s blood of her bitterest foes,
   I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again,
   Though I stand here to perish, I glory that then
   In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry,
   An’ that now for her sake I am ready to die.”

   Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
   An’ the judge wasn’t sorry the job was made light;
   By my sowl, it’s himself was a crabbed ould chap! 
   In a twinklin’ he pulled on his ugly black cap. 
   Then Shamus’ mother in the crowd standin’ by,
   Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry: 
   “O, judge! darlin’, don’t, O, O, don’t say the word! 
   The crathur is young, O, have mercy, my lord;
   He was foolish, he didn’t know what he was doin’;—­
   You don’t know him, my lord—­don’t give him to ruin!—­
   He’s the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted;—­
   Don’t part us for ever, that’s been so long parted. 
   Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
   An’ God will forgive you—­O, don’t say the word!”

   That was the first minute O’Brien was shaken,
   When he saw he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
   An’ down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
   The big tears kem runnin’ one afther th’ other;
   An’ two or three times he endeavoured to spake,
   But the sthrong manly voice seem’d to falther and break;
   But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
   He conquered and masthered his griefs swelling tide,