Lal of Kilrudden with flame-red hair,
And the sea-blue eyes that rove and dare,
And the open heart with never a care;
With her strong brown arms and her ankles bare,
God in heaven, but she was fair,
That night the storm put in from sea?

The nightingales of Inishkill,
The rose that climbed her window-sill,
The shade that rustled or was still,
The wind that roved and had his will,
And one white sail on the low sea-hill,
Were all she knew of love.

So when the storm drove in that day,
And her lover’s ship on the ledges lay,
Past help and wrecking in the gray,
And the cry was, “Who’ll go down the bay,
With half of the lifeboat’s crew away?”
Who should push to the front and say,
“I will be one, be others who may,”
But Lal of Kilrudden, born at sea!

The nightingales all night in the rain,
The rose that fell at her window-pane,
The frost that blackened the purple plain,
And the scorn of pitiless disdain
At the hands of the wolfish pirate main,
Quelling her great hot heart in vain,
Were all she knew of death.

Kilrudden ford, Kilrudden dale,
Kilrudden ruined in the gale
That wrecked the coast of Inishfree,
And Lal’s last bed the plunging sea.

HUNTING-SONG:  FROM “KING ARTHUR.”

Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,
When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle: Tarantara! 
With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,
And a ten-tined buck to kill!

Before the sun goes down, goes down,
We shall slay the buck of ten; (Bugle: Tarantara! 
And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha’e venison,
When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease,
Keep close and house him fair; (Bugle: Tarantara! 
He’ll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger
And the joy of the open air.

But he that loves the hills, the hills,
Let him come out to-day! (Bugle: Tarantara! 
For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,
And the hunt’s up, and away!

BUIE ANNAJOHN.

Buie Annajohn was the king’s black mare,
Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn! 
Satin was her coat and silk was her hair,
Buie Annajohn,
The young king’s own. 
March with the white moon, march with the sun,
March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!

Buie Annajohn, when the dew lay hoar,
(Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!)
Down through the meadowlands went to war,—­
Buie Annajohn,
The young king’s own. 
March by the river road, march by the dune,
March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!

Buie Annajohn had the heart of flame,
Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn! 
First of the hosts to the hostings came
Buie Annajohn,
The young king’s own. 
March till we march the red sun down,
March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!