To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends.
And the soil ’neath your feet has a memory sweet,
The patriots’ deeds they hallow it still;
Eighty-two’s volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!)
Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill.
But hark! there’s a shout—the horses are out,—
’Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo!
To old Crock-a-Fatha, the people that dot the
Broad plateau around are all for a view.
“Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I’ll bet on the yellow!