So lave me at aise, for three minutes or four, To spake to the girl I'll never see more." An' to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed its tone, For he thought of the days when he called her his own, An' his eye blazed like lightnin' from under the cloud On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud, An' says he: "Kathleen bawn, is it thrue what I hear, That you marry of your free choice, without threat or fear? If so, spake the word, an' I'll turn and depart, Chated once, and once only by woman's false heart." Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl dumb, An' she thried hard to spake, but the words wouldn't come, For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her, Wint could on her heart as the night wind in winther. An' the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin' to flow, And pale was her cheek as the moonshine on snow; Then the heart of bould Phaudhrig swelled high in its place, For he knew, by one look in that beautiful face, That though sthrangers an' foemen their pledged hands might sever, Her true heart was his, and his only, for ever. An' he lifted his voice, like the agle's hoarse call, An' says Phaudhrig, "She's mine still, in spite of yez all!" Then up jumped O'Hanlon, an' a tall boy was he, An' he looked on bould Phaudhrig as fierce as could be, An' says he, "By the hokey! before you go out, Bould Phaudhrig Crohoore, you must fight for a bout." Then Phaudhrig made answer: "I'll do my endeavour," An' with one blow he stretched bould O'Hanlon for ever. In his arms he took Kathleen, an' stepped to the door; And he leaped on his horse, and flung her before; An' they all were so bother'd, that not a man stirred Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard. Then up they all started, like bees in the swarm, An' they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm, An' they roared, and they ran, and they shouted galore; But Kathleen and Phaudhrig they never saw more. 'But them days are gone by, an' he is no more; An' the green-grass is growin' o'er Phaudhrig Crohoore, For he couldn't be aisy or quiet at all; As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall. And he took a good pike--for Phaudhrig was great-- And he fought, and he died in the year ninety-eight. An' the day that Crohoore in the green field was killed, A sthrong boy was sthretched, and a sthrong heart was stilled.' It is due to the memory of Finley to say that the foregoing ballad, though bearing throughout a strong resemblance to Sir Walter Scott's 'Lochinvar,' was nevertheless composed long before that spirited production had seen the light. End of Project Gutenberg's The Purcell Papers, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu