Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head;
And spring-flowers blossom, 'ere elsewhere appearing,
And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin.
Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dew
On the feet and the head of the martyred and true."
For awhile they tread
In silence dread—
Then muttering and moaning go the crowd,
Surging and swaying like mountain cloud,
And again the wail comes fearfully loud.