Murrough, they took to our Trysting Tree,

They hanged him there for all to see,

He, who had nursed me on his knee!

Jolt, jolt, jolt, across the plain,

They jolted us in wind and rain,

Those jolts still beat inside my brain!

With eyes uplifted to the sky,

Like some carved image did she lie,

Betimes I hoped that she might die!

The third night out there came a sound