answer you, _No!_'
But--if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in the rebellion I carried a pike,
An' fought for me counthry from op'ning to close,
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,
I answer you, _Yes_; and I tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, I glory that _then_
In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry,
An' that _now_ for _her_ sake I am ready to die."

Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;
By my sowl, it's himself was a crabbed ould chap!
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:
"O, judge! darlin', don't, O, O, don't say the word!
The crathur is young, O, have mercy, my lord;
He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';--
You don't know him, my lord--don't give him to ruin!--
He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted;--
Don't part us for ever, that's been so long parted.
Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
An' God will forgive you--O, don't say the word!"

That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,
When he saw he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
The big tears kem runnin' one afther th' other;
An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake,
But the sthrong manly voice seem'd to falther and break;
But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
He conquered and masthered his griefs swelling tide,
"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart
For, sooner or later, the dearest _must_ part;
And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear
On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast
From labour, and sorrow, for ever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour;
For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,
No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"
Then facin' the judge Shamus bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death-sintance was said.

The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;--
But why are the men standin' idle so late?
An' why do the crowds gather fa