Dermot Astore.
Oh! Dermot Astore, between waking and sleeping,
I heard thy dear voice, and I wept to its lay;
Every pulse of my heart the sweet measure was keeping,
’Til Killarney’s wild echoes had borne it away.
Oh, tell me, my own love, is this our last meeting?
Shall we wander no more in Killarney’s green bowers,
To watch the bright sun o’er the dim hills retreating,
And the wild stag at rest in his bed of spring flowers?