For the love of Alick Grey.
I’ve sunk beneath the summer’s sun,
And tremble in the blast,
But now my course is nearly run,
The weary conflict’s past;
And when the turf lies o’er my grave,
May pity haply say,
Oh! her heart, her heart was broken,
For the love of Alick Grey.
From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.