The sacred pile is reach’d; its chancel trod;
Around the altar, all in sight of God
Are reverently kneeling * * * Then they rise,
And one, there is, had need to wipe her eyes;—
This is that gentle one, who’s made a wife;—
Now Lady Mountjoy, for her mortal life!
* * * * *
The ceremony’s o’er; the bells peal out;
The villagers, again, raise high a shout.
Beneath a tree ’n the centre of the “green,”