The Rising of the Moon Part 5
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Don’t be a fool. I didn't tell you to go that way; I told you to go back to the town.
Back to the town, is it?
As through the hills I walked to view the hills and shamrock plain, I stood awhile where nature smiles to view the rocks and streams, On a matron fair I fixed my eyes beneath a fertile vale, And she sang her song it was on the wrong of poor old Granuaile.
Stop that; that's no song to be singing in these times.
Ah, sergeant, I was only singing to keep my heart up. It sinks when I think of him. To think of us two standing here, and he creeping up the quay, maybe, to get to us.
Her head was bare, her hands and feet with iron bands were bound, Her pensive strain and plaintive wail mingles with the evening gale And the song she sang with mournful air, I am old Granuaile. Her lips so sweet that monarchs kissed . . .
That's not it . . . "Her gown she wore was stained with gore." . . . That's it—you missed that.
You're right, sergeant, so it is, I missed it. But to think of a man like you knowing a song like that.
There's many a thing a man might know and might not have any wish for.
Now, I daresay, sergeant, in your youth, you used to be sitting up on a wall, and the other lads beside you, and you singing "Granuaile"? . . .
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