But though armed to the teeth, the grey-friezed horsemen were on no business of blood to-day: Their leader he loves a young maiden And he’s speeding to make her his bride. They come to the home of the bride, and presently Mary came out in her beauty The loveliest maid in Imale; The loveliest flower that blossomed In all the wild haunts of the vale. Arrayed in an emerald habit And the green and the white in her hair. * * * * * They led out a horse on the heather; She patted his neck with her hand, Then sprang on his back like a feather, And stood in the midst of the band. Then to the priest’s house for the wedding— Away dashed the cavalcade fleetly, By beauty and chivalry led, With their carbines aflash in the sunlight And the saucy cockades on their head! No braver tale could be told of any woman than the story of Mary Dwyer during the years that followed. She stood by her husband, ready to endure to the end in the struggles of ’98 and ’03; she shared the horrors of the prison ship that bore him into exile. She stood by his deathbed in 1805, and lived on, herself, to rear his children in a manner such that their father and their native land might be proud of them—though, alas! it was not Ireland that was to enjoy the finished work. When she died in 1861, the touching obituary notice of her in the Sydney _Freeman’s Journal_ could say of her with truth: “All her wishes in life were accomplished before her eyes closed in death. When she lived to see her two grandchildren sheltered under the guardianship of Mother Church—one a holy young priest, the other a dweller in the peaceful shadow of the cloister, she sang her hymn of resignation, ‘Now Thou dost dismiss Thy servant, O Lord.’”