On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath, For a time.