They bear in bright procession a pledge from France’s shore,
The busts of Hoche and Humbert beneath the Tricolour!
Then we have a September scene far away. We are now among the wild, unkempt kerns and peasants of County Donegal, in their villages and rude moorland huts of turf and boulders, dotted among the lonely valleys far away amid the bare, desolate, wind-swept uplands and bleak, gaunt, long-backed ridges, shrouded for half the year in rolling grey mists from off the ocean, that range along the coasts of North-Western Ireland. Everywhere the men are hard at work, seated in groups round their peat fires, all actively engaged in pointing pikes and grinding axes, lashing scythe-blades to short poles, and putting a fresh edge to ugly crooked knives; crooning to themselves the while over their toil:—
Oh, the Frinch are on the say,
Says the Shan Van Voght—
Oh, the Frinch are on the say,
Says the Shan Van Voght—
The Frinch are in the Bay,
They’ll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,