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| BRIGHT red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin, | |
| A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing, | |
| While fair round its islets the small ripples play, | |
| But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae. | |
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| Her hair is like night, and her eyes like gray morning, | 5 |
| She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, | |
| Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day, | |
| Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae. | |
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| But who down the hillside than red deer runs fleeter? | |
| And who on the lake-side is hastening to greet her? | 10 |
| Who but Fergus O’Farrel, the fiery and gay, | |
| The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae? | |
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| One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness; | |
| Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness?— | |
| He has told his hard fortune; no more can he stay; | 15 |
| He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. | |
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| For Fergus O’Farrel was true to his sire-land, | |
| And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland; | |
| He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, | |
| But he vows he ’ll come back to the Flower of Finae. | 20 |
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| He fought at Cremona,—she hears of his story; | |
| He fought at Cassano,—she ’s proud of his glory; | |
| Yet sadly she sings “Shule Aroon” all the day, | |
| “O, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae.” | |
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| Eight long years have passed, till she ’s nigh broken-hearted, | 25 |
| Her reel and her rock and her flax she has parted; | |
| She sails with the “Wild Geese” 1 to Flanders away, | |
| And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae. | |
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| Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging, | |
| Before him the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging, | 30 |
| Behind him the Cravats their sections display, | |
| Beside him rides Fergus, and shouts for Finae. | |
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| On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying, | |
| Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, | |
| Outnumbered and wounded, retreat in array; | 35 |
| And bleeding rides Fergus, and thinks of Finae. | |
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| In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, | |
| And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying; | |
| That flag ’s the sole trophy of Ramillies’ fray, | |
| This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae. | 40 |
