Struck on those organs, till with fright half dead
He hid away among some grass and stones.
Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon,
Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse,
Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat;
"For won't the young thing want his mither soon,
And come to take a bit of something t'eat?"
But vain the tender accents of his call—
No colt responded from the broken wall;
And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on,