And there’s little to comfort and little to glad,
And Famine’s throes impending.
Three men spoke up to the Gurteen throng,
And they trimmed their words by Home-Rule light;
They railed at the landlords, they raved about wrong,
And curses came rolling up black as the night,
For times are hard, and harvests are bad,
And troubles are many, and hearts grow sad,
With treason’s woes impending.
Three captives lay prisoned in Sligo jail,