While pain of loss, &c.
Sore tears are ours; joy is no more;
No hope of smiles; no cheer in store;
We seem like the brave Fians of yore
And Finn forsaken:
We seem like the, &c.
Ah! true it seems the tale to tell;
Our cup is filled with doings fell;
Provoking in a rage of hell
Bless’d God the Highest: