We've come to scotch the serpent, we know as Wicklow Jim,"
Said they, "At last we have you for oaths you gave to men,
An' swore them for your purpose, to bethray, an' sell them then!"
He didn't make an answer, but he thried to whip a knife,
From collar of his cota—it was there to guard his life—
He hadn't time to dhraw it, for a crack of shots! an' soon,
A pool of blood, was spurtin' from the corpse of John McKune.
