Oh then, tell me Sean O’Farrell, why you hurry so
hush—a buach-aill hush and listen and his cheeks were all a
glow.
I bear orders from the captain get you ready quick and soon
for the pikes must be together at the risin of the moon.
Oh then, tell me Sean O’Farrell, where the gath’rin is to
be?
In the old spot by the river well known to you and me
One word more for signal token, whistle up the marchin’
tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin’ of the
moon”.
Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through
that night
Many a manly heart was throbbing for the blessed warning
light
Murmurs passed along the valleys, like the banshee’s lonely
croon
And a thousand blades were flashing at the risin’ of the
moon.
There beside the singing river, that dark mass of men were
seen
Far above the shining weapons hung their own beloved green
“Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! strike the
marching tune
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom, ‘tis the risin’ of the
moon”.
Well they fought for poor old Ireland, and full bitter was
their fate
(O, what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of
Ninety-Eight!)
Yet, thank God, e’en still ard beating hearts in manhood’s
burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps at the risin’ of the
moon!
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