Now must we lie,
On Moyle's rough wave, with plumage seldom dry;
A pageant rare
Oft bore us to our grandsire's palace fair.
Ah, mournful change!
Now with faint wings these dreary shores I range.
O'er Moyle's dark tide,
Plume touching plume, we wander side by side;
Sharing no more
The joys that cheered our happy hearts of yore;