MacCarthy’s Grave: A Legend of Killarney

The breeze was fresh, the morn was fair,
The stag had left his dewy lair,
To cheering horn and baying tongue
Killarney’s echoes sweetly rung.
With sweeping oar and bending mast,
The eager chase was following fast,
When one light skiff a maiden steer’d
Beneath the deep wave disappeared;
While shouts of terror wildly ring,
A boatman brave, with gallant spring
And dauntless arm, the lady bore–
But he who saved–was seen no more!

Where weeping birches wildly wave,
There boatmen show their brother’s grave;
And while they tell the name he bore,
Suspended hangs the lifted oar;
The silent drops thus idly shed,
Seem like tears to gallant Ned;
And while gently gliding by,
The tale is told with moistened eye.
No ripple on the slumb’ring lake
Unhallowed oar doth ever make;
All undisturb’d the placid wave
Flows gently o’er Macarthy’s grave.